


For Whom The Bells Toll

by SuePokorny



Series: The Cardinal Mazarin Files [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-06 19:15:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3145550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tragedy at the palace leads the Musketeers on a quest for the truth, but sometimes the truth lies too close to home. Will they be able to fulfill their duty when the path leads them to one of their own?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This is my first Musketeers fic and I will admit it was a labor of love. I thoroughly enjoyed putting myself into a 17th century frame of mind, striving for the poetic sense of dialogue and prose that works so well in the show. Huge kudos go out to my wonderful beta, Sharlot, who I forced at gunpoint to watch the entire first season before I gave her this. That is dedication, folks! These characters are so rich and layered, I hope I served them well. This was written before the second season, so it does not follow the series 2 premiere, but is my own take on how things could’ve gone.

For Whom the Bells Toll

The clang of metal on wood reverberated in his ears as d’Artagnan instinctively ducked the tankard that sailed past his head, crashing against the wall behind him. Craning his neck, he watched momentarily as the dark crimson wine trailed down the panel, before settling more comfortably into his chair and returning his attention to the combatants on the far side of the tavern.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked his companion cautiously.

“Oi,” Porthos grinned. The older Musketeer kept his attention fixed on the brawl currently in full swing before them, his eyes tracking the movements of the two Musketeers taking part in the altercation; watching, assessing, enjoying. “They’re ‘avin’ fun.”

D’Artagnan visibly cringed as Athos took a punch to the face, his expression of concern quickly changing to one of pride as his friend lifted a fist and retaliated, sending his attacker to the floor in a heap. He shifted his gaze to Aramis, who ducked a roundhouse punch from another assailant, holding his own tankard aloft, trying not to spill the precious liquid within. 

A swing of Aramis’ arm sent the swarthy man stumbling backward into their table, and Porthos lifted a foot giving him a solid shove to help him back into the fray. Aramis lifted his tankard, grinning in appreciation for the assist.

“Shouldn’t we help them?”

Porthos laughed and took a healthy swig of his wine. His eyes were full of mirth, his grin eager and d’Artagnan could sense he was barely restraining himself from joining the battle. The big man leaned an elbow on the table and tilted his head toward the action. “Do they look like they need our help?”

D’Artagnan had to admit, though obviously drunk, Aramis and Athos appeared to have everything under control. He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in response. “No, I suppose not.”

“Then let’s just sit back an’ enjoy the show, eh?” Porthos smiled and held up his tankard in a toast. D’Artagnan followed suit, clinking his own mug against Porthos’.

“You still haven’t explained exactly why we’re sitting here watching our friends do…” the young Gascon waved a hand at the melee, “…this.” He had been surprised when Athos had collected him earlier, explaining that he was needed as support for an excursion of the utmost importance. One he had ascertained their destination, he had tried to decline, claiming he wasn’t in the mood for drinking, but the older man had made it clear that he would brook no refusal.

Since then, Aramis and Athos had been drinking steadily, the normally affable Aramis matching their leaders’ pace drink for drink, becoming more garrulous – not to mention vociferous -- as the night wore on. His increasing volume had managed to annoy a few of the more inebriated of the tavern’s patrons, leading to a few insults, which had led to a demand for satisfaction in the name of honor.

That was when d’Artagnan finally understood that the entire ‘excursion’ was nothing more than a thinly veiled excuse to start a fight.

Porthos leaned back against the wall, his smile fading a bit. “Aramis needs this.”

D’Artagnan huffed an incredulous laugh. “Why would anyone need this?” His attention shifted to Porthos as the big man sighed, surprised by his sudden melancholy.

“It’s to keep him out of ‘is own head.” Porthos explained, his eyes tracking Aramis as he was pushed away from the bar, his tankard lost, his expression one of wild abandon. “It’s been six years since Savoy, but every year on the anniversary of the massacre, he tends to let the guilt and memories take hold. This…” he waved a hand before him in emulation of d’Artagnan’s gesture of moments before. “This helps ‘im forget… for a little while at least. Gets ‘im through the worst of it.”

“You do this every year?”

Porthos shrugged. “It’s become a bit of an Easter tradition.” 

One of the drunkards stumbled toward them lifting a fist to throw a punch at Porthos. The Musketeer leaned to the side, deftly avoiding the fist, watching as the man, pulled by his own momentum, twist and, tangled in his own feet, fall with a resounding thud. The man lifted his head for a moment, staring at them as if waiting for their assistance, before deciding he was more than comfortable prone on the floor. 

“I didn’t know Aramis was still haunted by what happened.” D’Artagnan let his eyes drift from the drunkard lying at Porthos’ feet to the man in question, watching in amusement as Aramis felled another combatant, reaching out and claiming the man’s goblet before it fell. “I thought with Marsac’s passing he had managed to put it all behind him.”

“That’s what ‘e’d like you to think,” Porthos responded. “And, for the most part it would be true. But once a year, our would-be priest allows the demons out to play. What happened with Marsac stirred it all up again. Made it worse.”

“Worse? How do you mean?”

“The women,” Porthos responded. “The more women he beds, the worse the nightmares his mind is conjuring up.”

“The women?”

Porthos sighed again, lowering his eyes as if trying to come to a decision. Finally he returned his gaze back to his friends. “The women help him cope. They’re… distractions. A warm body and all that.”

“He uses them to forget when the memories get too close,” d’Artagnan surmised, looking across the tavern and seeing his friend in a new light.

Porthos nodded sadly. “Don’t get me wrong, Aramis loves ‘em all when he’s with ‘em. But lately, for some reason, he’s hasn’t been nearly as amorous as he normally is – especially this time of the year. And these past few days, I could see he needed somethin’ so…” He waved his arm again, indicating the brawl. 

“You gave him a distraction.”

Porthos nodded. “Athos and I decided long ago that we would be here to stop ‘im from getting’ lost in it all again.” 

Both of the seated Musketeers held their breath as Athos and Aramis bumped into each other across the room and turned, arms cocked to swing before recognizing their ally. They grinned in sheer mirth, each downing what was left inside their goblets before tossing them over their shoulders, clapping each other on the arm and throwing themselves back into the fight. 

“Athos,” Porthos explained with a fond smile, “Tends to take a more… active… role in the proceedings.”

D’Artagnan took another swallow of his wine, his gaze following the movement of his friends across the room. “What does Aramis have to feel guilty about?” he asked, not wanting to pry, but curious how a soldier as accomplished as Aramis could still be affected by something that had happened so long ago. He knew why Athos buried himself in a bottle occasionally, his family and his past weighing heavily on his conscience, but Aramis remained a mystery. He had done nothing wrong. Nothing should weigh on his conscience. 

“He feels guilty for survivin’,” Porthos said, his voice low. “For a while, he thought he should’ve died right along with those twenty other Musketeers. It took a long time for Athos and me to make him believe he had a right to live when they didn’t.” 

He shrugged again, drained his mug and slammed it down on the table. Their attention was drawn to the door where a few of the Cardinal’s Red Guard had found their way into the tavern, no doubt drawn by the sounds of the brawl filtering out onto the street. 

“Looks like the fun may be over.” 

Porthos stood, squaring his shoulders and drawing himself up to his full height. He sent a glare of warning toward the soldiers as they stepped further into the tavern, their intent to interfere with the ongoing festivities obvious. 

The look on Porthos’ face, d’Artagnan thought, would make any intelligent man turn and run back the way he’d come. Unfortunately, most of the soldiers of the Red Guard weren’t that smart. 

D’Artagnan drained his own tankard and pushed himself to his feet, flexing his fists in anticipation of the fight. Despite his earlier misgivings, he found himself as eager as Porthos to join the fray, so, with a crooked smile alighting his face, he waded into the brawl.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis woke to the sound of bells ringing, unsure if the annoying noise was inside or outside his aching head. He remembered spending most of the previous evening trying to match Athos drink for drink, but it became painfully obvious after a few hours that he would never be on the same level as the older man when it came to the imbibing of wine. How Athos managed to drink his weight in alcohol and still maintain an outward appearance of sobriety remained a mystery – though Aramis was inclined to believe it was a tolerance acquired through years of dedicated practice. Lucky for him, a few of the taverns other patrons had taken offense at his attempt to educate them on the finer points of … something… and they’d ended up in a brawl, thankfully thwarting his poor attempt to prove his tolerance to wine was on an equal level to his noble friend’s.

He squinted through bloodshot eyes, taking in his surroundings. He was in his quarters at the garrison. He slumped back onto the thin cot and sighed. Porthos and d’Artagnan, bless their loyal hearts, must have stayed with them at the tavern and made sure both he and Athos had returned safely to sleep off their intoxication. A tightness near his eye proved it wasn’t only the alcohol that had his head aching and he reached up to feel the tender flesh, imagining the bruising marring his face.

Oh well, it was a small price to pay for the temporary oblivion it provided.

As the bells continued to chime, Aramis recognized the sound as the cathedral bells of Chapelle de la Sorbonne – definitely outside his head – and the reason for their trolling seeped into his wine-addled mind.

Easter.

It was Easter Sunday. And now the reason for his attempt to unseat Athos from his drinking throne came clear.

Savoy. It was the anniversary of the massacre of Savoy.

He swallowed convulsively and squeezed his eyes tightly as his stomach lurched, obviously trying to distract his mind from the memories that suddenly surged through it. It was six years hence and he still could see them as clearly as if it were yesterday. The twenty still bodies, lying where they had fallen on the frozen forest floor. The light snowfall had concealed the more telling signs of the slaughter, hiding the grisly details beneath a film of sterile white. 

But Aramis had known it was there. 

It would always be there.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, allowing the sunlight shining through the window to force away the images of his past. 

He was safe now.

He had survived.

And he knew the truth.

With a low groan he forced himself to sit up and let his aching head hang down to rest on his hands. The pounding inside his skull kept time with the cathedral bells and he ran his fingers through his tangled curls. The morning after was never as much fun as the night before, and although each and every morning after, he vowed to never, ever do this to himself again, he was once more berating himself for indulging in the wine to temporarily bury his pain.

He reached behind him and grasped the back of the shirt he had slept in, pulling it up and over his head, letting the cool morning air send a chill across his skin. The sensation served to clear his mind a bit, and he let his eyes close, his head drop once more as he attempted to sort through the unwanted memories swirling inside him. 

Though he couldn’t condone Captain Tréville’s part in the massacre, he understood it. Tréville was a soldier, and soldiers followed orders – even if they didn’t agree with them. Tréville hadn’t known what would happen when he gave the troops location to the Duke upon the King’s orders – and Aramis was loathe to consider what he would have done had he known the outcome – but it had been obvious the Captain had suffered for the decision. Aramis now understood the leniency extended to himself – and by extension Porthos and Athos – all these years. As the only soldier to return from the training mission to Savoy, Aramis was a reminder to Tréville of what his actions had wrought. Because of this, Aramis couldn’t find it in himself to blame the man further for what was not his fault.

He held no such consideration for the Cardinal. If, as Tréville had surmised, it was Richelieu who had planted the seed of an assassination attempt into the mind of the Duke, Aramis’ heart held no forgiveness for the man. Twenty good friends – brothers – had died because of that lie. And though it may have been at the King’s order, he was convinced the origins of the idea had been the Cardinal’s alone. He couldn’t help but wonder whether the Cardinal had forged the plan simply to protect the Duchess or to take advantage of the situation and decimate the Musketeers at the same time. Ingenious, if it weren’t for the wanton waste of human lives.

He’d kept to himself for a few days following Marsac’s death and his friends had not pushed him to speak of it. Eventually he’d explained what had happened, finding release in sharing the burden. It became easier to remember his fallen brothers once he convinced himself they had given their lives for the crown. Theirs was an honorable death, a soldier’s death. Even Marsac, who had died in his pursuit of justice, had regained his place of honor in Aramis’ eyes.

So it was no wonder his friends had allowed him his evening of drink – even encouraged and participated in it – though he wasn’t sure he was up to thanking them quite yet. He may have lost twenty brothers at Savoy – and one more recently – but he had three who would do whatever it took to see him through the turmoil he’d witnessed. He’d become part of a family, brothers in all but blood, and he couldn’t be more content with the result.

He slowly raised his head and looked around, spying the water bucket on the ground in front of the narrow window. Pushing himself off the bed, he waited a moment for the world to right itself before shuffling to the far wall and kneeling down before the half-filled bucket.

He had witnessed Athos’ method of sobering himself upon rising after an evening of drinking to excess and assured himself that if it hadn’t killed the older Musketeer yet, it probably would do him no harm. He took a deep breath and, before his better sense could assert itself, bent forward and plunged his head into the frigid water.

With a loud wail he fell back on his haunches and raised a hand to wipe the moisture from his face and eyes. 

“That was bracing,” he said out loud as he shook his head, allowing the droplets to scatter from his hair.

“It generally does the trick.”

Aramis jumped in surprise, turning to see Athos and Porthos leaning against the frame of his now open door.

“Feel better?” Porthos couldn’t hide the grin that played on his lips at the disheveled sight of his normally debonair friend.

“Don’t ever let me drink that much again,” Aramis ordered as he pushed himself up, leaning a hand against the wall to stop himself from toppling. “I concede to Athos’ superior constitution.”

Athos merely smiled, his own hair dripping around his shoulders. “I applaud your wisdom, my friend.” Aramis raised a brow at the swelling surrounding Athos left eye, then lifted a hand and tenderly prodded his own.

Porthos smirked. “Just don’t clap too loudly, Athos. I don’ think Aramis can ‘andle the noise just yet.” He stepped into the small room and picked up a shirt from the back of a chair, tossing it to his friend as he slowly straightened with a groan.

The shirt landed on his head and he yanked it away, absently nodding his thanks. “It couldn’t be any worse than those damnable bells the Cardinal had installed in that eyesore to his vanity.”

“The Chapelle de la Sorbonne is a beautiful chapel,” Athos pointed out drolly, baiting his friend. “The architecture is inspired.” The Cardinal had commissioned the construction of the chapel, which had recently been completed, a marble likeness of His Eminence himself adorning the main hall. They had all been disgusted with the gall of the man, knowing how far his deception and evil stretched, but the King had been delighted to honor the Cardinal, still naively believing Richelieu held the best interests of crown and country close to his black heart.

“The architecture does not reflect the man who ordained it. “ Aramis pulled the shirt over his head, not bothering to hide his disdain for the man who had not only orchestrated the deaths of twenty fine musketeers, but had, more recently, the audacity to attempt to kill the Queen. He still could not understand why Anne had allowed the man to live. He would have gladly taken the Cardinal’s head then and there if she’d so wished. He wandered back to the cot and dropped heavily down onto it. “What I wouldn’t give to hear the melodic bells of Notre-Dame again.”

“The rumors are the bells of Notre-Dame have fallen into disrepair.” Porthos reminded him. Whether it was true or whether it was just an excuse for the Cardinal to tighten his hold on Paris, they did not know. “Besides, you know the Cardinal wants his own bells ringing out over Paris.”

Aramis nodded. “Simply another way for the blight that is Cardinal Richelieu to continue to stain our beautiful city.”

“Careful, Aramis,” Athos warned. “We understand your hatred of the Cardinal and share it, but, for now, he sits at Louis’ right hand. If anyone outside these walls heard your words, they would not be taken lightly.”

Aramis sighed and leaned forward rubbing his hands across his face. “I know. And I promise to be the very definition of discretion once I leave this room.”

Just then, the youngest member of their quartet arrived and leaned in through the door to the room. A faint bruise graced his cheek and his bottom lip was split, but he grinned when he saw Aramis’ crumpled countenance.

“You look like you had an interesting evening.”

Aramis looked up at d’Artagnan’s smiling face. “One of the best, from what I can actually remember, thank you very much. Unfortunately it has been marred by a morning filled with smirks and innuendos. ”

“Not to mention bells ringin’ inside and out,” Porthos added helpfully.

“Those, too.” Aramis conceded.

“Well, Tréville wants us immediately. Apparently something of importance has happened at the palace.”

Aramis looked up, his eyes finding Athos’, who immediately picked up on the reason for his friend’s alarm.

“Did Tréville say anything else?” the older man asked calmly, his eyes holding Aramis’ a moment before turning to the newest member of the regiment.

D’Artagnan shook his head. “No. Just that there had been an incident at the palace and we were to be dispatched immediately.”

Athos nodded then followed d’Artangnan and Porthos down the steps of the barracks. Aramis reached for his doublet and weapons, having never removed his boots and breeches from the previous evening. As he followed his friends out the door, he grabbed for his hat and placed it on his head, his hangover forgotten as fears for the Queen and her unborn child took up residence inside his mind.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

On their arrival at the Louvre, they were directed to a familiar courtyard directly outside the offices of the Cardinal. Tréville met them as they entered the yard.

“There’s been a murder,” he told them without preamble. “The Cardinal himself has been killed.”

The four Musketeers exchanged looks of surprise before returning their attention to their superior.

“I don’t suppose there are any witnesses to this event?”

Tréville shook his head at Athos’ question and began to lead them to the arch of the palace entrance. “Unfortunately, no. He was stabbed in the back with a dagger. It’s conceivable he knew his attacker as there are no signs of struggle.”

“He didn’t fight back.” Porthos surmised.

“Or he was surprised,” Aramis offered.

Tréville nodded. “That is what you are here to determine. Athos, I’m putting you in charge of this investigation. I realize the Cardinal had many enemies, many who would rejoice to see him dead and gone…” he looked pointedly at the four of them before continuing. “If I am honest, I can be considered one of them, as could all of you. But the King has ordered us to find out what happened and I trust you to be impartial in your investigation.”

They had stopped before the massive doors of the Cardinal’s study. A small group of ladies were standing near the far entrance to the hallway and Athos could make out the familiar face of the Queen in their midst. He nodded at Tréville.

“We will do our best, sir.” He tilted his head at the others. “Porthos, come with me. Aramis, d’Artagnan, remain on guard and allow no one else inside so that we may have time to gather any evidence available.”

Without another word he turned and accompanied Tréville into the room. Porthos hesitated for a moment, exchanging a shrug with Aramis before following the other men and closing the door behind him.

Aramis sighed and pivoted, placing his back to the door, standing at parade rest as ordered. Normally, Athos would want his insight into such a matter, but, he considered, maybe the older Musketeer believed his hatred of the Cardinal would mar his objectivity in this case. He found he couldn’t argue the point. If there was one man who deserved such an end, it was Cardinal Richelieu.

“The Cardinal is truly dead,” d’Artagnon muttered in disbelief.

“It would seem someone has done the whole of France a favor.”

The younger Musketeer turned to his friend, his expression one of rebuke. “You mustn’t speak like that, Aramis. I understand how you felt about Richelieu -- I share the sentiment. We will never prove it, but I know he was somehow responsible for my father’s death. But you cannot allow anyone to overhear your true feelings. There could be repercussions.”

Aramis sighed and lowered his head. He blamed the throbbing behind his eyes and the queasiness of his stomach for his lack of tact and atypical disposition. “You are, of course, right. I apologize, my friend. I –“

“Monsieur Aramis?” 

Both men looked up, surprised to see one of the young women who had been standing at the end of the hallway curtsey before them. 

“Mademoiselle?”

The young woman rose and graced them with a shy smile. “Her Majesty requests your presence.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened, shocked at the request. Aramis merely nodded, and with a lopsided grin and slight shrug of a shoulder to his friend, followed the woman back down the hallway. 

The ladies parted to reveal Queen Anne standing in all her glory, her cheeks flushed, her belly swollen as the child inside her flourished. Aramis’ eyes were drawn to the round swell beneath her dress and he dropped to a knee before her. 

“Your Majesty, your radiance puts the sun to shame.”

Anne smiled. “You are too kind, Monsieur Aramis.” She looked to her ladies in waiting as he rose and they, in unison, stepped back to give them a semblance of privacy.

“Are you well?”

Anne nodded, her smile still playing on her lips. “Yes.” She placed a hand upon her swollen womb. “We both are.” She hesitantly reached a hand up, brushing her fingers against the bruise along his eye. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

Aramis sighed in relief and returned her smile. “This is nothing,” he assured her, feeling suddenly bereft as she lowered her hand. “I am pleased. As your time has grown near, I have worried.”

The Queen sobered, her eyes misting a bit as she lowered her head. “As I knew you would.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice to a mere whisper. “I pray every night for some way to be able to share this joyous miracle with you.”

“And I pray each day for a way to support you in your time of need.”

She looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Just knowing you are thinking of me... of us... makes the days easier to bear.”

Aramis lowered his own voice to match hers. “Then rest assured, my Queen, you are both in my thoughts, and my prayers, every minute of every hour of every day.”

Her smile brightened and he longed to reach for her, but knew they could not give in to their desires. Reluctantly he took a step back and Anne looked behind him toward the closed doors of the Cardinal’s chambers.

“The Kind is distraught,” she said, her voice once again bearing the tone of regality. “He will stop at nothing to find whomever is responsible for the death of Cardinal Richelieu so that justice may be served.” She returned her gaze to Aramis, the tears no longer present as she once more became the Queen of France. “I trust Captain Tréville to discover the perpetrator of this heinous act and bring him before the court.”

Aramis bowed. “You have my word we will do whatever is necessary to find whomever responsible. But, if I may caution the Crown, the Cardinal had many enemies. It may be difficult to discover the true culprit within the maze of intent.”

Anne gifted him with a knowing grin. “As I have already explained to my husband. Your task is an intricate one at best.”

“Then we shall endeavor to give the King the satisfaction he desires.”

Anne nodded and motioned for her ladies to return. “God speed, Monsieur. I would like to be kept personally informed of your progress.” She made the formal request loud enough for all within the confines of the corridor to hear.

Aramis bowed again. “If that is Your Majesty’s wish.”

With a nod and a gracious smile, Anne turned and led her entourage back through the doors at the far end of the hallway, Aramis waited until the doors closed, blocking the sight of her from his wanting eyes. Only then did he return to his post beside d’Artagnan.

“The Queen requested you to keep her appraised… personally.” The young Gascon smirked.

“So it would seem,” Aramis responded coolly. He knew d’Artagnan had no idea of just how… personal… the Queen’s request truly was, and, if he could help it, the lad never would.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The body was lying to the side of the large, ornate desk, the top strewn with scrolls, some still sealed with the stamp of the King. Richelieu lay face down, one arm extended toward the door as if he had been reaching for help with his last breath.

Athos found he could summon no sympathy for the fate of the man. All he had done to deceive the King -- his orchestrations with Athos’ ex-wife now known as Milady de Winter, his sanctioning of the assassination of the Queen and his part in the massacre of Savoy, not to mention the secret dealings that were sure to have been going on behind Louis’ naïve back -- combined to lead Athos to believe the Cardinal had been delivered his just desserts. 

He knelt down beside the body, careful to avoid the small pool of blood that had collected alongside, soaking into the expensive tapestry on the floor.

“A dagger to the back,” he observed. “Not exactly a heroic way to die.”

“An act of a coward,” Porthos agreed. He stood on the other side of the body with Tréville, but his voice held no more compassion than Athos’ did.

“Perhaps, but considering how devious the Cardinal could be, a case could be made for intelligence over honor.”

Porthos merely grunted in return.

Athos let his eyes drift to the hilt of the dagger, the blade still embedded in the cooling flesh of the Cardinal. It was a main-gauche, the hand guard scratched and dented from use. His brow furrowed as he studied the familiar carving on the hilt of the weapon, his breath hitching in his throat as he realized where he’d seen the blade before.

“Porthos,” he motioned to the other Musketeer as Tréville moved toward the desk to inventory the scrolls scattered across its surface. When the big man crouched down so their heads were only inches apart, Athos’ tilted his head toward the dagger. “Does that look familiar to you?” His pitched his voice low, barely a whisper, and the larger Musketeer frowned at the sudden change in tone. Porthos shifted his eyes to take in the dagger and Athos sensed the moment he realized what he’d discovered.

“No,” Porthos shook his head adamantly. “It can’t be.”

Athos took a deep breath and closed his eyes, his suspicions confirmed.

“No,” Porthos repeated. “I won’t believe it.” He looked up quickly to make sure Tréville was far enough away so as not to overhear their whispered words. “It may be his dagger, but that doesn’t mean he did this,” He raised a hand and gestured to the body on the floor.

“He hates the Cardinal more than anyone,” Athos stated sadly. 

Porthos shook his head vehemently. “No. Aramis is not a coward. He wouldn’t do this. You know that.”

“His dagger says otherwise.” Athos honestly couldn’t bring himself to believe his friend capable of such an act any more than Porthos could, but he’d given Tréville – and the King – his word. He’d sworn to investigate with impartiality. Apparently that was going to be much more difficult than he’d thought.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Porthos stared at Athos, his expression one of disbelief, anger and disappointment. 

“Are you seriously considering him suspect?”

Athos sighed, his face betraying none of the emotions swirling inside him. They had wrapped the main-gauche in cloth and allowed the palace guards to remove the body before returning to the garrison. His intention was to lock the dagger away in one of the cabinets in Tréville’s office, but Porthos would not be put off. Without preamble, and as soon as they were sequestered in Athos’ quarters away from the prying eyes and ears of the rest of the company, the big man had made his opinion known.

“I merely asked for his whereabouts last evening,” Athos responded, directing his attention to Aramis. “As Tréville explained, we would all have liked to see the Cardinal dead. It’s a simple question. One we shall all have to answer. ”

“You know where he was!” Porthos shouted, raising his arms in frustration. “He was with you!”

Although Porthos had seen the dagger and known its owner, he steadfastly refused to believe his friend guilty. Athos admired his loyalty – and shared it – but would be remiss in his duties if he did not pose the questions. Yes, Aramis did have more reason than most to see the Cardinal dead – as did they all -- but while they wanted the Cardinal dead to avenge past actions, Aramis alone would find his death advantageous for the threat he could become in the future. They had no evidence that the Cardinal knew anything about Aramis’ and the Queen’s indiscretion at the convent, but if Richelieu threatened the Queen or her child, Athos had no doubt Aramis would do whatever necessary to protect them. It was that fear that drove him now. Unfortunately, it was something he couldn’t come right out and ask without revealing Aramis’ secret, so he found himself torn between his duty to the Crown and his loyalty to his brother. It was not a position he relished. 

Athos nodded. “For a large portion of the evening he was with all of us, yes. But –“

“Aramis was right here,” Porthos interjected. “In his room, sleeping off the wine the same as you. I tucked ‘im in myself.”

“But you didn’t stay with him,” Athos pointed out. 

“What?” D’Artagnan joined in from his place against the closed door of the room. “You can’t honestly believe Aramis had anything to do with the Cardinal’s death?” He shook his head, an expression of disbelief adorning his face. “He was in no condition to stand, let alone travel all the way to the Louvre and covertly gain entrance to murder a man. I can testify to that myself.”

“Besides,” Porthos took up the defense. “You saw him this morning. He was barely moving.”

“Yes, but he was moving.”

Aramis, who had initially been surprised by Athos’ suspicions, had remained silent since their return, sitting on the room’s one chair as his three friends shouted at each other inside the small space. Seeing the emotions of his friends heating – and understanding why Athos was being more vague than usual -- he cleared his throat and raised his head, gaining the rapt attention of the other three.

“D’Artagnan, Porthos, would you allow me a moment to speak with Athos in private?”

Porthos huffed a breath through his nose and with a sideways glance at Aramis, clasped d’Artagnan on the arm and pushed the younger man out the door in front of him, slamming the door in his wake. 

“My friends are loyal,” Aramis commented as the echo of angry footfalls faded down the stairs.

Athos rolled his eyes but nodded in agreement.

“All of them.” Aramis stood and crossed the small distance, placing a hand on Athos’ shoulder and giving him a sad smile. “I understand your concern, Athos. And I appreciate your discretion. But, I can assure you, my friend, I had no hand in the Cardinal’s demise. However much I may have wanted him dead, I was not the instrument of his fate.”

Athos nodded with a relieved sigh, accepting his friend’s word. “I never truly believed you were guilty.”

“But, considering the unique… circumstances I find myself in with the Queen, I cannot condemn your uncertainty.” He slapped his hand on Athos’ shoulder twice before stepping back with a small bow. “Hopefully, you will take my word as a gentleman and a Musketeer so that we can put this matter to rest.”

Although Athos still had questions – first and foremost how Aramis’ main-gauche found its way into the back of Cardinal Richelieu – he had known Aramis long enough to trust the man would never stoop so low as to commit such a cowardly act. Despite the motive and evidence against him, Athos believed his friend spoke the truth.

“Of course,” Athos returned the bow, then stepped forward to place a more gracious hand on his friend’s arm. “I pray my inquiry has wrought no ill will between us.”

Aramis smiled and shook his head. “You may have some reparations to make to Porthos, but I understand you were simply doing your duty. Although, I am curious as to why you believed so quickly that I may be involved in such a crime.”

Athos hesitated to tell him about the dagger, wanting to protect his friend despite his dedication to duty. Finally, deciding it would be prudent to have an explanation in case Tréville or the King should learn the truth, Athos crossed the floor and picked up the linen-wrapped weapon he had laid on the table when they’d returned from the Louvre.

With a furrowed brow, Aramis accepted the bundle and deftly unwrapped it, his dark eyes showing his surprise as he recognized the bloodstained weapon in his hands. If Athos was not convinced of his friend’s innocence before, the look of complete bewilderment on Aramis’ face now would be enough to persuade him.

“This is the dagger that killed Richelieu?” Aramis looked up, his eyes wide with shock, his voice trembling. “Athos, I…” he looked to his friend, his face conveying his confusion. “I have no idea....”

“Nor do I,” Athos stated. “But, I assure you, no matter how this dagger came to be in the murderer’s possession, I no longer suspect your involvement.”

“How can you not?”

Athos smiled. “You have given me your word, my brother. And, as your friend and a fellow Musketeer, I have accepted it. Nothing else is needed.”

Aramis shook his head. “You believe my word, despite the evidence in front of your eyes?”

“Of course.” The answer was immediate and confident.

Aramis dipped his head. “Thank you, my friend.” He handed the dagger back to Athos. “But I expect you would like an explanation.”

“It would be… helpful.”

“I haven’t owned that dagger for some time.” Aramis crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the cot. “I believe it was just after we defeated Sarazin in the streets and saved Madame Bonacieux. The blade was nicked and the grip worn so I took it to the cutler to have it repaired. While there, I found this.” He drew a shining main-gauche from its sheath, twisting it back and forth, letting the light glint off the intricate design carved into the hilt. He gave Athos a satisfied smirk. “I couldn’t resist such a beautiful weapon and worked a trade with the cutler. I haven’t seen that dagger since.”

Athos frowned and turned the stained blade over in his hands. “So whomever the cutler sold this blade to could be our murderer.”

“It was long ago,” Aramis cautioned him. “Many months have passed. He may not remember who purchased the blade.”

Athos nodded his agreement. “But it is a place to start. Do you remember which cutler you dealt with?”

“Of course.”

Athos walked to the door and placed his hand on the handle before turning to his friend with a crooked grin. “Then let us go find a murderer.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Stepping outside, they saw d’Artagnan leaning against the archway at the entrance to the garrison, his arms folded across his chest. They quickly made their way through the courtyard, and approached the young Gascon, whose attention was focused on the street at the other end of the arch.

“Where’s Porthos?” Aramis asked, the concern in his voice obvious.

D’Artagnon nodded his head toward the street. “Gone.” He turned and leveled an accusing stare at the other two. “He was very upset with both of you.”

“What did I do?” 

Athos huffed a sigh at Aramis’ squawk of innocence. 

Aramis graced him with a frown before returning his attention to the younger man. “He couldn’t have gotten far. It shouldn’t be difficult to find him.”

“Porthos is more than capable of taking care of himself.” Athos held an arm out to bar the others from progressing down the archway. “And we have a duty to perform.”

Aramis took a step back, both hands on his hips, and craned his head back to glare at the top of the concrete arch. An aggravated sigh escaped him. “Athos…”

The older Musketeer placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “He will be fine. We will speak to the cutler first –“

“Fine.” Aramis ran a hand across his face, then pointed a finger at him, his eyes wide with intent. “But then we will find Porthos and settle this discord between us.”

Athos gave him a long look. “I suppose you want me to apologize.”

Aramis shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

“I did nothing wrong.”

“You disappointed him.”

“Which was more your fault than mine.”

“Perhaps, but the fact remains his ire is currently directed at you.”

D’Artagnan, who had been attempting to follow the conversation, his head swiveling back and forth at the rapid exchange, was hopelessly confused. His brow raised and he held his breath at the glare Athos sent the Spaniard’s way. He tensed, uncomfortable with the friction between his friends.

Athos gaze shifted from the apprehensive expression on d’Artagnan’s face to Aramis’ more pointed air before dropping his head with a resigned sigh. “Fine. I will apologize.”

Aramis’ smile was instantaneous. “Thank you.”

“Can we go now?”

D’Artagnan smirked as Aramis reached up and removed his hat, bowing gracefully, and extending his arm toward the entrance. “After you, mon frére.”

Athos took a deep breath and rolled his eyes, then turned and preceded them through the arch.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 

The sword merchant Aramis had dealt with had a small shop on Rue Saint-Germaine, which was a brisk walk from the garrison across the Pont Neuf to the left bank. They were fortunate to find the cutler himself present and, after showing him the dagger in question, found the man had quite a penchant for faces.

“Ah, yes,” the portly man crowed. He was seated on a narrow bench, sharpening a rapier with a jeweled basket. He narrowed his eyes at Aramis. “I remember you. How is that new blade working out? Fine piece of craftsmanship, eh?”

Aramis dipped his head in agreement. “It is a beautiful weapon, I’m surprised you remember me. It has been many months since I was here.”

The cutler set the sword onto a small wooden table behind him and stood, wiping his hands on his stained apron. “I never forget a face,” he grinned through rotting teeth, his eyes sweeping the three men before him, obviously hoping they had come to purchase more weapons. “Especially one who wears the King’s pauldron.”

“That is quite fortuitous,” Athos stepped forward, his left hand tucked behind his back, his right on the hilt of his sword. “We are here to inquire about another of your patrons.”

Athos noted the craftsman’s disappointment, but he recovered quickly, no doubt realizing these men were soldiers and likely to be in need of good, reliable weapons at some point. Helping them now could only bode well for his business in the future.

“If you remember Aramis,” Athos nodded toward his friend. “Then perhaps you remember the person who purchased his original main-gauche?”

The cutler grinned. “I ain’t likely to forget her.”

“It was a woman?”

The man nodded, his eyes lighting at the memory. “A pretty one at that,” he responded with a leer. He rubbed at his chin, smearing the dirt that had collected there then raised his eyes to the ceiling as if the image of the woman in question would be found floating above them. “Most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen. She commissioned a piece from me – a small metal box. Said she was going to use it to hold an important memento… yes, that’s the word she used. Memento.”

Athos sighed patiently. “She also purchased this dagger?”

“Aye,” he answered eagerly. “While I fetched the trinket box from the back, she was looking over my wares. She seemed interested in the collection of daggers, and when I pointed that one out and told her it used to belong to one of the King’s Musketeers, her eyes lit up like the sun.”

“Why did you feel the need to tell her it belonged to a Musketeer?” Aramis asked.

The man laughed and shrugged his ample shoulders. “Salesmanship, my good fellow.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Athos could smell the pungent aroma of his last meal on his breath. “You know the ladies love to hear stuff like that.” He winked at Aramis, and the Spaniard took a startled step back. “They seem to romanticize your sort now, don’t they?”

Athos grunted, which could’ve been taken as concurrence or contempt. 

“She could hardly contain her excitement, that one, once I told her the dagger belonged to the brave and honorable Musketeer Aramis.“

Athos and d’Artagnan directed identical glares of exasperation toward the marksman. Aramis opened and closed his mouth a few times, obviously at a loss at how to respond. He ran a hand through his curls and sighed, finally raising his brows in defeat and giving his friends a resigned shrug. 

Athos shook his head and took a deep breath before returning his attention to the merchant. “Can you describe this woman?”

“She was a beauty,” the man said with a leer. “She had dark hair that fell in those little ringlet things across her shoulders. I could tell she was a lady of fine quality, the way she moved in that red velvet dress with such grace and purpose.” Athos could feel his heart sinking into his stomach as the cutler continued. Even as he tried to ignore the connections his mind was making concerning the image the man was weaving, he knew, deep down, exactly who had purchased that dagger. “And those eyes… green as emeralds, I tell ya.”

Before either Aramis or d’Artagnan could comment, Athos thanked the man for his time and hurried them out the door of the shop and back onto the street. Once there he didn’t wait for them to question the abrupt departure and immediately headed back toward the garrison.

“Athos!” 

He stopped as his arm was grasped from behind, though there was no pressure and he could have easily kept moving forward. He sighed and lowered his head for a moment, then turned to confront Aramis and d’Artagnan with a level stare.

“It couldn’t be her,” Aramis said quietly, instinctively knowing what his friend had assumed.

“You heard the description as did I,” Athos pointed out. “Who else would be quite so interested in a Musketeer’s dagger?”

“That description could fit many women in the city,” d’Artagnan argued.

“Besides,” Aramis continued. “You told her to leave Paris. You spared her life. The Cardinal betrayed her trust, she has no one to protect her now.”

“Exactly,” Athos said coldly. He didn’t miss the way both of his companions avoided using her name, as if saying it out loud would somehow make her appear like a ghost out of the shadows. “The Cardinal betrayed her. What better reason for her to murder him – and frame a Musketeer for the crime?”

“It does sound like something she would do,” d’Artagnan admitted. “Like what she tried to do to me.”

Aramis sighed. “It is quite a coincidence. And she does hate us all. It’s conceivable she would take the opportunity to implicate me in the Cardinal’s death.” His hand was still on Athos’ arm, and the older Musketeer placed his own hand over his friend’s. 

“If it truly was my malevolent wife, I don’t believe she was targeting you, but using you to get to me.”

“Which doesn’t make this any better.”

“No, but it does make her more predictable.” Athos squeezed Aramis’ hand and the marksman withdrew it. “We need to inform Tréville of our findings.”

“We need to find Porthos,” Aramis declared. “If Milady is back, he needs to know. All of us are vulnerable.”

Athos nodded, understanding Aramis’ need to find the missing member of their quartet. Porthos had been angry – and Athos could only hope his ire had cooled – but he was still owed some sort of explanation, not to mention the apology Aramis had made him promise to deliver.

“D’Artagnan and I will go back to report to Tréville. Meet us there in two hours – with or without Porthos.” He gave Aramis a pointed look, waiting for the marksman to acknowledge the order. He knew the man was worried that their hot-headed friend could find all sorts of mischief if duly motivated, but if Milady was still in Paris and involved in the Cardinal’s death, their troubles were graver than they had imagined.

Aramis nodded reluctantly then headed off toward the inner city.

“Shouldn’t we go with him?” d’Artagnan asked, a hint of concern coloring his voice. 

Athos shook his head, letting his eyes track Aramis until he disappeared around a corner at the far end of the street. “Aramis will find Porthos. We must attend to duty.” 

With a pat on the younger man’s shoulder and a last glance at the now empty street, they headed back to the garrison.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis took a deep breath before he entered the tavern. It was the third such establishment he’d checked. After coming up empty at the first two, he prayed for success on this occassion, knowing his time was growing short and that he would be obliged to turn back in order to keep his word to Athos if he didn’t come upon his rogue friend soon. 

He’d started at the taverns just on the fringe of the Court of Miracles, knowing Porthos would start there, trying to work his network of informants in an attempt to glean some kind of information about the Cardinal’s murder. Despite leaving the Court years ago, Porthos still kept in contact with some of its inhabitants. The series of events that had ultimately led to Portho’s former friend, Charon’s, demise had hurt his reputation with many of the area’s denizens, but Porthos was still able to blend into the throng of characters that made up the Court – a pretense Aramis couldn’t quite achieve. 

The marksman was aware of the stares he was currently receiving from more than a few of the tavern’s patrons. He knew he looked rough; his eye was still tender and most probably bruised and his headache, although receded to a dull throb, more than likely gave him an irritated countenance buoyed by the frustration brought about by his lack of success. The scrutiny he garnered made him uncomfortable, but as one of the King’s Musketeers, fear was a constant companion and a few looks of umbrage were not enough to sway him from his mission. With quiet intent, he strode across the room to the long wooden board that served as the tavern’s main bar and leaned across the beam to gain the attention of the barkeep behind it. The man took his time responding, glaring at Aramis when he finally deigned to acknowledge him.

“What do ‘ya want?” the keep asked in a gruff voice.

“I’m looking for someone,” Aramis smiled charmingly. “A friend.”

“You ain’t got no friends here, Musketeer.”

Aramis sighed. “Be that as it may, I’m looking for a man named Porthos. I was hoping -”

A rough push from behind forced him into the edge of the wooden bar and he gasped as his ribs made sharp contact with the edge of the beam. With a slight wince, he turned slowly, smiling benevolently at the three rough looking men who stood in a semi-circle before him, effectively trapping him next to the bar.

“You deaf, Musketeer? The man said you ain’t welcome ‘ere.”

Aramis held up his left hand, his right hovering lower, near the hilt of his sword. He knew the quarters were much too close to chance drawing the weapon, but he instinctively dropped his arm, the comfort of the blade strengthening his resolve.

“I assure you I received the message loud and clear, my friend. I just wish to –“

Whatever else he intended to say was thwarted by a sudden crash of glass followed by a blinding pain in the back of his head. A flash of bright white overtook his vision and suddenly he found himself on the ground, trying to curl into a ball to protect his head and torso from the vicious kicks that were coming too fast at his body.

He had no idea how long the assault lasted, but he gradually became aware that the blows had ceased, even though the sound of furniture breaking and the thud of bodies hitting the floor momentarily continued. A familiar roar filled the air followed by the scraping of chairs and shuffling of feet before a sudden silence surrounded him. 

He sensed a presence near him and tightened his muscles in an effort to protect himself. He nearly jumped out of his skin as a hand came down on his head, unexpectedly gentle and mercifully familiar.

“Aramis?”

He nearly laughed in relief, groaning instead as the hands moved to his side, pressing against his aching ribs.

“’Mis? Can you hear me?”

He winced as the soft voice reverberated in his head, a feeling of shelter and security nearly overwhelming him. Taking a gasping breath, he shifted slightly, slitting open his eyes, swallowing thickly as the world moved in and out of focus.

“There you are,” the voice said, dripping with concern. Aramis squinted, desperately trying to bring the face drifting in front of him into focus. He managed a wan smile, as his friend’s familiar visage took shape. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Porthos chided as he leaned back on his heels. Aramis watched as the larger man pulled his scarf from around his neck and folded it, pressing it gently to the side of Aramis’ head.

“Looking for you.”

Porthos shook his head in fond exasperation. “You shouldn’t ‘ave come here.”

“Apparently I had little choice since this is where you seem to be.” 

“Unlike you, Aramis, I have friends in the Court. Good thing one of ‘em recognized you and found me before those men stomped you to pieces.”

Aramis huffed an indignant laugh, immediately regretting as the throbbing in his head increased. “I had the situation well in hand.”

Porthos pressed the scarf harder to make his point.

“Ow!”

“Exactly.” He removed the material long enough to part Aramis’ hair and peer at the damage done to his head. “You’re lucky they didn’t split your head like a melon.”

“It rather feels as if they did. What hit me?”

“Wine bottle.”

Aramis sighed. “I hope it was empty. I’d hate to think they wasted good wine on this.”

“I doubt if there is such a thing as good wine in this place.” Porthos looked around, his expression warning anyone near to keep their distance. Aramis squinted past his friend, noting the small crowd of people watching them from across the now silent room. “Think you can stand?”

Aramis nodded, holding out an arm, thankful for his friend’s assistance. Once upright, the various bruises on his arms and body began to make their presence known and he groaned as his ribs and back joined his head in protest at the movement.

“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

Aramis didn’t complain, merely allowed Porthos to lead him from the tavern and into a narrow alley a few buildings down. Once they were safely out of sight of the hostelry, Porthos eased him down against the brickwork and knelt beside him. Gently moving Aramis’ thick, dark curls, the big man winced at the gash, still bleeding sluggishly.

“This may need needlework,” he cautioned before replacing the scarf against the cut. 

Aramis lifted a hand and Porthos removed his own from the dark curls, letting the marksman take over the pressure. Once sure his friend was able to keep the makeshift bandage in place, Porthos leaned back against the opposite wall and gave the smaller man a disapproving glare.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed,” he said bluntly. “What the hell were you thinkin’?”

“I was thinking I needed to find you before you did something stupid.”

Porthos huffed a laugh. “So you figured to do something stupid first?”

Aramis returned the smile. “It sounded like a good idea at the time.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re the fool who encourages me.”

Porthos chuckled loudly, smiling at his friend with unabashed affection.

“I was coming back, ya know.”

Aramis nodded, swallowing thickly as his he felt his brain slosh inside his head. “I was impatient.”

“You never were very good at waiting.”

“True. I’m a man of action.” He grinned at the easy banter, but it faded quickly. “Athos is waiting to apologize.”

Porthos’ expression sobered and he diverted his eyes. “Is he now?”

“He wasn’t being disloyal, Porthos. You know him better than that.”

“I thought I did,” the big man shook his head. “But he seemed to accept your guilt a bit too easily.”

“He had his reasons to suspect my involvement.”

Porthos growled in irritation. “You talkin’ about the dagger? Anyone could’ve taken that. I’ll bet you didn’t even know it was missing.”

Aramis smiled at his friend’s steadfast belief. “I traded that dagger many months ago. We’ve already spoken to the cutler to find who he sold it to.”

Porthos eyes widened expectantly. “Yeah?”

Aramis started to nod, but thought better of it. “Yes. It seems a beautiful woman with dark hair and green eyes purchased it when the merchant told her it was formerly owned by one of the King’s Musketeers. He was even gracious enough to give the woman my name to entice her into purchasing the weapon. Apparently, it was an opportunity too fortuitous for Milady to pass up.”

“Milady de Winter?” Porthos nearly spat the name. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Afraid not, my friend.” Aramis sighed and closed his eyes, allowing his head to lean back against the brick wall. “Athos is, of course, beside himself with recrimination for allowing her to escape.”

“Of course,” Porthos couldn’t help his snort of derision. “He’ll be blamin’ ‘imself for everything that woman does until she’s locked up in the chåtalet or executed by order of the King.”

They sat in silence for a moment, each reflecting on the damage the woman who called herself Milady de Winter had done to the psyche of their friend and their sense of security.

Aramis opened his eyes to see Porthos watching him, taking in the pale face, the bruised eye and the overall air of fatigue that seemed to hover around him. Aramis knew he’d been acting differently since Anne had announced her pregnancy, but he’d hoped he’d been able to hide it well enough to avoid detection. From the way Porthos was studying him at the moment, he wasn’t quite sure of his success.

“There’s something else, though, isn’t there?”

Aramis looked away, trepidation and resolution warring across his handsome features.

“Just come out with it, Aramis.”

The marksman sighed, wrapping both arms around his torso and lowering his eyes to the ground between them. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Probably not,” Porthos agreed. “And I can probably save you the trouble of saying it out loud. I thought you promised to aim lower.”

Porthos stifled a laugh at the wide-eyed look of surprise on his friend’s expressive face.

“How…?”

“I’m a lot more observant than you and Athos give me credit for.”

“Apparently.” Aramis had the grace to look abashed.

“So?” Porthos pressed. “What happened to your promise?”

“In fact, it was you who told me to aim lower, I never actually agreed…”

“Aramis…”

His head came up at the low growl. “I assure you, my friend, what transpired was not intended in advance. By my word, my aim was… neither low nor high. I did not set out to seduce the Queen.” He laughed, but the sound was more sad than happy. “It was rather the other way around.”

“She seduced you?” Porthos’ voice rose an octave in disbelief.

Aramis quickly shook his head, squeezing his eyes tightly as the sudden dizziness reminded him why abrupt movements were currently a bad idea.

“’Mis?”

He held up a hand as he heard Porthos shift, ready to come to his aid. “I’m alright.” He swallowed loudly. “Just keep forgetting that certain actions are unadvisable at present.” He opened his eyes and gave his friend a convincing smile, relieved when Porthos settled back on the other side of the narrow alleyway.

“So?” Porthos prompted. “The Queen?”

Thankfully they were alone in the alley, the sounds of the Parisians going about their daily business far from their position. Still, Aramis lowered his voice, careful of the precarious situation he was about to bring forth.

“It was more an attempt at comfort.”

“Comfort,” Porthos repeated.

“Do you remember me telling you about Isabelle?”

Porthos’ brow furrowed at the unexpected segue. “Your betrothed?”

Aramis nodded slowly, pleased his brain decided to stay put this time. “She was there.”

“At the convent,” Porthos clarified, causing Aramis to smile again at his friend’s perceptiveness. “And what? She turned you down?”

“She was a nun, Porthos.” For all his obvious perceptiveness, Porthos could still be quite dense at times.

Porthos smiled indulgently, and Aramis returned it, silently thanking his friend for the attempt at levity. 

“So her father had her in a convent all these years?”

Aramis sobered as he remembered his surprise at finding his former lover after so long. “Apparently it was her decision alone. She did not believe me cut out for a simple life and, after losing the baby, left of her own accord to save me from making a mistake. She considered it a kindness.”

“How could anyone mistake leaving for a kindness?” Porthos shook his head in disbelief.

Aramis shrugged wearily. “I do not have an appropriate answer for that.”

Porthos pursed his lips as he studied Aramis. “So what happened?”

Aramis took a deep breath, shifting painfully as his ribs and back began to ache in earnest. “The assassins found a way into the convent through an opening in the cellar. She was there….” His voice began to tremble and tears clouded his eyes at the still painful memory. “I arrived in time to kill them, but… she died in my arms.”

“I’m sorry, mon frere.”

“As am I.” Aramis gave him a tremulous smile and tightened his arms around himself as a pain more emotional than physical shook his frame. His eyes lost focus as he continued in a voice so quiet, Porthos had to lean forward to catch the softly spoken words. “Anne – Her Majesty – saw my grief. She was trying to console me. Two people, commiserating about the loss of a child… one thing led to another and….” He looked up and Porthos’ heart pained at the tear that slowly slid down his friend’s cheek. “She is a beautiful woman. And a kind and generous soul.”

“She’s the Queen,” Porthos reminded him softly.

“Yes, She’s the Queen. As you and Athos have quite succinctly pointed out.”

“You told Athos?” Porthos tone wasn’t quite accusatory, Aramis noted. He sounded more… hurt.

He didn’t bother to answer, simply stared at the other man, one brow raised, a slight grin lifting the corner of his mouth.

It didn’t take Porthos long to understand the implication and his eyes widened in shock. “He caught you?”

“He walked in on us – after.”

Porthos couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped his mouth. “What I would’ve paid to see that! Did you at least get a rise out of him?”

Aramis lifted his hand, thumb and forefinger nearly touching one another. “A small one,” he admitted. “But he quickly regained his composure.”

“’Course he did.”

Aramis returned his friend’s grin for a moment before allowing his eyes to communicate his apology. “I wanted to tell you, Porthos, but…”

“You’re still an idiot, but you were trying to protect me. I know.” The big man’s perceptiveness and easy acceptance once again humbled the Spaniard. 

“If anyone found out about our indiscretion, I would be hanged for treason. I couldn’t risk your life by sharing my moment of weakness.”

“It ain’t a weakness to find comfort in someone’s arms, ‘Mis.” Aramis couldn’t help but be amazed at the capacity for forgiveness that welled inside his friend. The man was truly an enigma. A child of the Court; a thief and criminal from a young age, but a man with a heart the size of France who truly embodied the spirit of a Musketeer. “Besides,” Porthos continued. “If anyone did find out, do you really think they’d believe I didn’t know?”

Aramis smiled, tilting his head in acquiescence. “Fair point.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the sounds of the city providing a subdued background to their thoughts. Suddenly Aramis felt his friend’s gaze upon him and he looked up, surprised to see shock and sympathy combined on Porthos face.

“What about…,” Porthos stumbled over his words, his eyes wide with concern and Aramis knew the moment his friend had figured out the real predicament he had landed them all in. “Please tell me... it’s not… Damnit, Aramis! How could you be so –“

“Virile?” Aramis’ attempt at levity fell short.

“Not funny,” Porthos growled. “Is the child yours?” His voice was a mere whisper, as if even saying the words out loud were blasphemy.

Aramis smiled sadly, allowing all the pain and trepidation he felt show for a moment in his eyes. “Anne believes so.” He shook his head and gave a little laugh filled with entirely too much pain. “Even if it is true, I can never be a part of his life.”

This time Porthos did move, shuffling across the rough ground until he was pressed next to his friend, able to put an arm around his shoulder and pull him into a warm embrace. “I’m truly sorry, my friend.”

Aramis leaned into the familiar comfort, and for the first time allowed himself to give in to the sorrow he’d been carrying inside.

“I swear to you now, Aramis,” Porthos said quietly, his strong arms tightening around the man he considered family. “I will protect your child with my life. I will watch over him and allow no harm to come to him as long as I shall live.”

And to his surprise, Aramis’ did not feel weakened by the need to be embraced. All he found in Porthos’ arms was strength.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

For Whom The Bells Toll – Chapter 3

D’Artagnan kept pace with his friend as they headed silently toward the garrison. He knew Athos was upset, blaming himself for allowing Milady to escape after they had thwarted her plan to kill her former husband by holding Constance hostage. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he remembered the fear he felt as he saw the woman he loved held hostage among the throng of cutthroats partaking in Sarazin’s ill-fated attempt at an ambush. They had made it out alive and unscathed – save for a few cuts and bruises. And, more importantly, Constance had been saved.

It was a credit to her instinct to fight that Constance had been able to push Milady’s blade away and escape, leaving the dark-haired temptress on her knees and at Athos’ mercy. He had never believed Athos in the wrong for allowing Milady to live. She had once been his wife, and he had loved her. He had already condemned her to death once and nearly been destroyed by the weight of that decision. It was no surprise to any of them when he spared her life, warning her to leave Paris and never return. 

A warning, it would seem, she had neglected to heed.

D’Artagnan doubted Athos would be as forgiving again.

As they approached the garrison, his breath froze in his throat as his gaze fell upon a familiar figure, pacing nervously in front of the archway. He slowed his stride as they approached, aware of Athos keeping pace with him, realizing that Constance’s anxious form had caught his mentor’s attention as well. 

“Madame Bonacieux,” Athos stopped just before the archway and bowed, his hand on his hat as he smiled at the young woman standing before them. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

Constance returned his smile, looking him in the eyes. “And you, also, Monsieur. It has been quite… dreary without you and your friends’ constant interruptions into my life.” 

“We shall strive to do better.”

She gave him a warm grin. “I’d like that.” She shifted her gaze to the side and dropped her head a touch, looking through her lashes at the younger man standing beside Athos. “D’Artagnan, it is good to see you.”

D’Artagnan stared for a moment, all the feelings he’d managed to lock down deep in his heart, swelling the moment he gazed into her eyes. A sharp cough from Athos brought him back to the matter at hand.

“Um, yes, Madame Bonacieux. The pleasure is mine.”

Constance blushed and ducked her head, shifting from one foot to the other, trying unsuccessfully to breathe normally.

After an awkward moment, Athos sighed. “Was there something we could do for you, Madame?”

D’Artagnan silently thanked his friend for breaking the uncomfortable silence, not knowing what course would be appropriate to take under the circumstances. He had accepted Constance’s decision to stay with her husband even though they had both pledged their love to one another after the encounter with Sarazin and his gang of ruffians. At the time, he had thought he’d gotten everything he’d ever wanted in the world. He’d finally received his commission and could proudly wear the pauldron of a Musketeer, he’d found three brothers who cared for him as much as he cared for them, and the woman he loved more than life itself had chosen to return that love. It was all he could’ve asked for, until her husband had played upon her sense of honor and duty – ironically the two things a Musketeer held dear. When she had told him of her decision to remain with her husband, d’Artagnan had been devastated, the support of his brothers the only thing that had kept him going all these months. He’d finally accepted that it was not to be, but his heart had loathed to move on. 

And now she was here, standing before him, and he found his emotions in turmoil once again.

“Madame?” Athos repeated, drawing Constance’s attention from the younger Musketeer.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, blushing once more. “This was delivered to my home for you.” She held up a small parcel expertly wrapped in linen and twine. “I thought it might be something important, so…” She glanced at d’Artagnan as she let the explanation drift off.

Athos reached out and accepted the parcel, bowing again in appreciation. “Thank you, Madame. But why would a package be delivered to you instead of here to the garrison?”

Constance shook her head and shrugged her ivory skinned shoulders. “I have no idea. It’s not like you’ve been a constant visitor to my home these last few months.”

“Again, an oversight I will endeavor to change,” Athos assured her. “If you both will excuse me, I must report to Captain Tréville.” With a nod of his head, he took his leave and disappeared beneath the archway, leaving d’Artagnan and Constance together on the street outside the garrison.

“How are you…” d’Artagnan began just as Constance found her own voice.

“I hope you’ve been…”

They both laughed at the clumsy attempt at communication, Constance’s laugh ending in an embarrassing snort that had her eyes widening in mortified surprise. D’Artagnan merely smiled in shameless endearment.

“How have you been?” He asked, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips, kissing it softly. “I have missed you.”

Constance eyes softened and her lip quivered as she attempted to return his smile. “I have missed you, too. I had no idea how much excitement you brought to my life until it was suddenly gone.”

“It was your decision,” d’Artagnan reminded her. “And I have done my best to honor it.”

“I know,” she nodded, dropping her eyes. “I just had no idea how… empty… my world was before you literally fell into it.” She took a deep breath and raised her eyes, gazing into his with all the love he’d hoped to see in them. “I… I know it was my choice, d’Artagnan, but… I’m….” She shook her head and placed one of her hands across her eyes. “What am I saying? I can’t….” She dropped her hand and looked up at him again, and d’Artagnan was shaken to see tears pooling in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” Constance said, her voice quivering with emotion. “I had no right….” She gathered up the hem of her dress and quickly brushed by him, quietly apologizing again as she fled down the street.

D’artagnan stumbled forward a few steps, his heart desperately wanting to follow her, but knowing he must not. It wasn’t his place. She was a married woman, and he… he had no idea what he was to her. Despite his ache for her, he knew that Constance must make her own choice, and he could not allow himself to attempt to sway her to dishonor her vows. He was a Musketeer and he would have to act with honor himself.

No matter how impossible it may seem.

With a last glance down the street, he reminded himself of his duty to the King and to his friend, and forced himself to progress through the archway into the garrison.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Leaving d’Artagnan and Constance on the street to speak privately, Athos made his way to the stairway leading to Tréville’s office, only to be informed that the Captain was currently unavailable but was expected to return shortly. Without the need to report, Athos attention shifted to the small package he held in his hand.

Why would something for him be delivered to the Bonacieux household? Who knew enough about him to know that his acquaintance with Madame Bonacieux was close enough to be assured she would deliver the package to him? Why not just have it delivered to the garrison?

Deciding there was no way to answer the questions floating through his head until he discerned what was in the parcel, he made his way to the table across the deserted courtyard and took a seat on one of the benches by its side. Slowly he untied the twine and pulled the edges of the fine linen cloth from the item underneath.

It was a box.

An intricately made box of metal with a small, delicate flower carved into the top.

It was a box made to hold a memento.

With shaking hands he slowly lifted the lid of the container. He swallowed around the sudden thickness in his throat as the lid slid back and he gazed at the parchment rolled inside. Clearing his throat with a cough, he reached in and ever so carefully pulled the parchment from the box, unrolling it with trembling fingers.

My Dear Husband,  
Your weakness allowed me to live, a mistake for which you   
and all whom you love will pay handsomely.  
Now you know what I am capable of.   
It will not be over until we are both dead.  
Your Loving Wife

Athos closed his eyes, a tightness in his chest beginning to ache in earnest, the painful irony of the valediction not lost on him. Realizing he’d been holding his breath, he forced the air from his lungs, taking in another ragged breath as he tightened his grip, crushing the parchment within his grasp. He tasted bile in the back of his throat and swallowed hard, burying his anger and disappointment deep inside where he could channel it into something more useful.

It will not be over until we are both dead.

The very words his ‘loving wife’ had spat at him when he permitted her to live. A mistake he already regretted.

Opening his eyes, a glint from inside the box caught his attention and he tipped it over, a familiar gold locket falling into his open palm.

He snorted a laugh through his nose. Damn her. She knew exactly where to strike, how to cause the most damage.

He had underestimated her once, allowed his feelings for what they once had to cloud his judgment. Now she was toying with the lives of the people closest to him. She couldn’t have known about Aramis’ secret, but the damage she could have caused was inexcusable. He doubted she intended to stop with trying to frame Aramis for the Cardinal’s murder. Porthos, d’Artagnan, even Constance and Tréville were at risk. She would stop at nothing to get her revenge. Anyone he cared about would be vulnerable and that was something he could not endure.

“So it is her.”

He’d been so lost in his own thoughts, he’d failed to notice d’Artangan stepping up behind him. The young Gascon had obviously seen the locket he held in his hand, recognizing it as the same one he’d dropped into the street so long ago. At the time it had meant a clean break for him, a symbol of letting go of his past.

It would seem the past wasn’t quite so ready to let go of him.

Without a word, he handed d’Artagnan the parchment. The younger man read the words, placing a hand on his mentor’s shoulder and squeezing in sympathy.

“I should never have allowed her to live.” Athos stated.

“You loved her once.”

The older man nodded slowly. “Sometimes love is a weakness that can fell the strongest of men.”

D’Artagnan couldn’t find it in himself to disagree.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Captain Tréville rode into the garrison courtyard, his eyes connecting with Athos’ as he dismounted and handed his reigns off to the stable boy. As he strode to the stairway leading to his office, he sensed his lieutenant following. He knew it was likely d’Artagnan would accompany Athos, and Tréville had no qualms about the newest member of the regiment hearing what he was about to say. The information he held would affect them all.

He removed his weapons belt as well as his doublet, dropping them onto a narrow table situated to the side of his desk. It was only moments before he heard the footsteps on the walkway outside his office and he turned to find Athos and d’Artagnan entering the room.

“Close the door,” he instructed, circling the desk and dropping down onto the chair behind it. D’Artagnan complied, then came abreast of Athos , both standing at attention, waiting for their superior to speak.

“You have been instructed to report to the new First Minister and turn over everything you have found concerning the investigation into the Cardinal’s murder.”

“A new First Minister?” d’Artagnan mumbled. “That was swift.”

Athos frowned. “Are we being relieved of duty, sir?”

“Apparently,” Tréville sighed. He rubbed a hand over his face and sat forward, leaning his forearms on the desk. “You are to report to Cardinal Mazarin. Give him everything you have.”

D’Artagnan shifted nervously, while Athos sighed.

“Perhaps we should report our findings to you first.”

Tréville’s eyes narrowed, not liking the wariness of the soldier’s voice.

“Very well,” he leaned back, one elbow on the arm of his chair and gestured with the other. “What have you found?”

“When we were called to the palace earlier, both Porthos and I recognized the dagger used to kill the Cardinal. It belonged to Aramis.”

Tréville’s eyes widened, his expression one of reprimand for withholding that information from him, but he said nothing, waiting patiently for Athos to continue.

“When confronted, Aramis informed me that the dagger had been traded to a merchant on Rue Saint-Germaine, who in turn sold it to a woman whose description sounds remarkably close to Milady de Winter’s.”

“Do you believe it was her?”

Athos took a deep breath then nodded. He held up the metal box, opening the lid and retrieving the crumpled parchment he’d replaced inside. “This was delivered to Madame Bonacieux’ home. The Madame was gracious enough to bring it to me here at the garrison just moments ago.”

Tréville took the paper he held out and perused the note quickly. His face betrayed no emotion as he handed the parchment back across the desktop. 

“And this makes you believe Milady was responsible for the Cardinal’s death?”

Athos nodded. “This box was made by the same craftsman from whom she purchased the dagger. The cutler was kind enough to make her aware of the dagger’s previous owner. We believe she saw an opportunity to not only get revenge against a man whom she believes betrayed her, but a chance to use Aramis as a means of reprisal against me.”

Tréville pursed his lips for a moment then turned his eyes to the younger Musketeer standing before him. “And do you concur with this theory?”

D’Artagnan cleared his throat, obviously a bit surprised that his opinion was desired. “Yes, sir. In my dealings with Milady, this is a deception she would be most capable of.”

Tréville sat back, considering the information his two Musketeers had presented. Knowing the lengths Athos’ wife had gone to exact her revenge before only lent credence to their conclusion.

“Very well,” he said finally. “Present your findings to Cardinal Mazarin, but –“ He held up a finger, his voice sharp with warning. “Do not offer Aramis’ name as the previous owner of the dagger. We do not need to throw suspicion where none is needed. Simply state what the merchant told you.”

“And what of Milady de Winter’s name?”

“I’ll leave that to your discretion,” Tréville said carefully. “You must present the description the cutler gave you as testimony, but whether or not you reveal your supposition of Milady’s involvement is entirely your decision.”

Athos nodded, grateful for the Captain’s leniency concerning what he considered a private affair. He had never wanted his past to interfere with his life here as a Musketeer – a task he had failed miserably. Not only had his actions haunted him at every turn, now, it would seem, they would bring further menace to those he considered family. It was a circumstance he could not – and would not – tolerate.

As they turned to leave, Tréville called Athos back, waiting until d’Artagnan had stepped through the doorway, leaving them alone in the office. He stood and stepped around the desk, lowering his voice to address his second-in-command.

“Be careful of Mazarin,” he cautioned. “He was once a soldier and he understands the art of strategy almost as well as Richelieu. He will come across as a modest, well-meaning man, but do not trust him. I have had dealings with him before. Perhaps it’s just an old soldier’s suspicions, but I do not believe he has any more love for the Musketeers than his predecessor.”

“And here I thought the Cardinal’s death, would make our lives easier.” Athos lifted one side of his lips in a wry grin. “I would trust your intuition as much as my own, Captain. And I will heed your warning.”

Tréville nodded once, which Athos took as a dismissal. As he strode out of the office, Tréville sighed, his eyes remaining on the door. 

“Easier, indeed,” he whispered. 

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Leaving the captain’s office, Athos was relieved to see d’Artagnan down in the courtyard conversing with Porthos and Aramis, no doubt explaining about the box and their confirmation of Milady’s involvement. As he descended the stairs, he frowned, noting the way Porthos hovered close to Aramis who stood slightly hunched over, one arm around his torso and one holding a piece of cloth to his head. A closer inspection of the marksman revealed a dark stain of dried blood smeared down the side of his face.

“I see you found Porthos,” he stated the obvious as the other three men turned their attention to his approach.

“More like he found me,” Aramis responded easily. He straightened a bit under Athos scrutiny, unable to hide a wince behind his feigned smile.

“A fortuitous occurrence, indeed.”

Aramis tilted his head in acceptance. “I would have preferred a bit more eagerness on his part, but…”

“You’re just lucky I didn’t let them kick your backside all the way back to the garrison.” Porthos cut in amicably.

Aramis bowed, “Point taken. My sincere gratitude for your timely intervention.”

“Are you alright?” Athos reached a hand up and moved the cloth pressing against the Spaniard’s head. He craned his neck as Aramis titlted so he could see the gash still beading with blood amongst the dark curls. “Do you need a surgeon?”

“I can deal with ‘im,” Porthos declared. Athos noted that the big man’s hand was still firmly attached to Aramis’ arm and he was relieved to see whatever anger the man had held earlier had obviously dissipated and been replaced with a more familiar sense of concern for their friend.

Although Athos wasn’t entirely sure that forgiveness extended to himself as of yet.

“Tréville has ordered us to report to the new First Minister and turn over our findings to him.”

“New First Minsiter?” Porthos growled. “The body’s barely even cold as yet.”

Athos shrugged as he placed a hand on Aramis’ back and began guiding the man toward the infirmary. “Be that as it may, the politics of government must go on. It was prudent to appoint a new Minister and fortunate there was someone qualified available.”

“And is this new individual friend or foe?”

Athos shrugged. “Cardinal Mazarin is at yet an unknown commodity – although Captain Tréville is wary and bids us caution in our dealings with him.”

They entered the small medical room and Athos led Aramis to one of the cots, pushing him gently down onto the mattress. 

“So we’ve gained nothing?” Porthos sighed. He moved across the wooden floor to the cabinet that held the medical supplies, searching through the provisions for the items needed to close the gash on Aramis’ head. Although the marksman was the unofficial medic of the group, it fell upon one of them to sew him up when the occasion warranted. Both he and Athos had been called to service at one time or another, although neither claimed to be quite as adept as Aramis.

“There’s something to be said for the devil you know,” Aramis offered, nodding approvingly at Porthos as he returned with a needle, thread and small bottle of brandy.

“Except that devil has been dispatched to Hell,” Porthos sighed. 

“So what do we tell this new Cardinal?” 

Athos considered d’Artagnan’s question for a moment before answering, his eyes following Porthos’ movements as he doused the gash with brandy then raised the needle to commence the arduous task of sewing the wound on Aramis’ head closed. Before he could begin, Aramis seized the bottle and tipped it back, swallowing a large gulp of the brandy, then nodded for Porthos to begin. 

“We are instructed to stick to the facts.” Athos explained. “We need not reveal who the dagger previously belonged to, only that we were able to trace it to the cutler on Rue Saint-Germaine and that it was sold to a woman with dark hair and green eyes.”

“What about the box?” Aramis asked, confirming Athos’ assumption that d’Artagnan had filled them in when they’d returned. Athos shifted his gaze to Aramis face to find the dark eyes squeezed tightly, a grimace of pain on the handsome features.

He reached out a hand and grasped the wounded man’s in silent support. Aramis took it gratefully, squeezing firmly as Porthos applied another stitch.

“The box is of no consequence.”

“It confirms it was Milady who purchased the dagger,” d’Artagnan argued gently.

“Perhaps. I will relay the description, but leave the Cardinal to draw his own conclusions. My wife is a problem I will see to personally.”

Having tied off the final stitch, Porthos stepped back and looked at Athos pointedly. “You couldn’t dispatch the problem before.”

Aramis slapped his friend on the leg in reproach. “Porthos! Athos acted as a gentleman should.” He shifted his dark eyes to the older Musketeer, giving the man a sad smile. “You loved her once. It should never have fallen on you to condemn her. Not then and not now.”

Athos squeezed the hand he still held before releasing it and rising to his feet. “I appreciate the sentiment, my friend, and will consider your words. Milady cannot be allowed to continue to inflict her brand of justice upon those she deems to have wronged her. I feel it is my betrayal that spawned her hatred, and it must be my hand that stays it.”

“Aramis is right,” d’Artagnan argued. “You did not force her into this life of treachery. Let this new Cardinal deal with her. Do not allow her to tighten her hold on you once more.”

Although he was hesitant to allow his past to surface yet again, he had to consider that his friends were right. Milady had taken much from him. He had let go of the anger and the burden when he’d dropped the locket in the street all those months ago, and he’d felt lighter for it. Since then he’d been able to focus on his life here, in the King’s service, rather than dwelling on the past. He’d even curbed his drinking – much to the delight of his brothers – no longer needing the solace of wine to dull his memories, simply to blur what remained of them.

He had let himself believe he could be free of the sins of his past, a belief that was perhaps too hastily accepted. He could see the looks of disquiet upon the faces of the three men in the room and loathed to see the weight of his burdens once again stoop their shoulders.

“You are, of course, right,” he said finally, quietly. “Despite any feelings I may still harbor, Milady is a criminal and should be dealt with accordingly. Having been ordered to pass the investigation to the new First Minister, I shall explain to him our findings and allow him to determine her fate.” He looked at all three in turn, his eyes conveying his gratitude for their unwavering support. “Thank you. I do not feel deserving of your friendship, but I will always be humbled by it and cherish it above all others.”

“As you should,” Porthos grinned, lightening the mood. He turned his attention back to Aramis who was tenderly prodding the area around the stitches. “You good? Or do we need to check your ribs?”

The marksman still held an arm around his torso, but shook his head as he carefully maneuvered himself from the cot. “No. I believe they are simply bruised. Nothing time won’t heal.”

The other three watched as he stood, each assessing the condition of their friend for themselves, relieved to find him truthful in his account.

“Well then, I suppose we should report to the new Cardinal and wash our hands of this mess.” Athos offered.

The other three Musketeers heartily agreed.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

For Whom The Bells Toll – Chapter 4

After gaining admittance to the palace grounds, the four men headed through the gardens to the portico leading to the First Minister’s offices. As they approached the building, two guards on duty at the entrance stepped forward, barring their way.

“What business do you have with the First Minister, Musketeers?” The guard spat the last word as if it left a foul taste on his tongue.

Athos stepped forward, his eyes level with the guard’s, his voice ringing with authority.

“I am Athos. We are here to report our findings on Cardinal Richelieu’s untimely death. We are expected.”

The guard sniffed and took a step back, cowed momentarily by the former Comte’s confidence and poise.

“You alone may enter,” he said, looking down his nose with self-important bravado. “The others will remain here.”

Before his companions could object, Athos nodded his agreement and with a slight wave of his hand, ordered the others to comply. Without another word, he followed the guard into the building, stopping at the doorway to the Cardinal’s office and waiting expectantly until the guard reluctantly opened it for him, granting him entrance.

As he stepped inside, he was met by the sight of a tall, thin man of about 50 years of age, leaning over the desk, studying one of the many scrolls scattered across the wooden surface. Mazarin’s graying hair brushed his shoulders as he stroked his well-trimmed beard in concentration. Wrapped in a regal looking red robe with a skull-cap of matching color on his head, he looked up as the door closed behind the Musketeer and gave the new arrival a wide grin that, Athos noted, failed to meet his dark eyes.

“Ahhh, welcome my good fellow. You must be Athos, of the King’s Musketeers. Captain Tréville said to be expecting you.” He stepped around the large desk with a flourish and approached the younger man, his right arm extended, palm down as if expecting the Musketeer to bow down and kiss his hand like royalty.

“Your Emminence,” Athos bowed , his eyes level with the Cardinal’s, refusing to give the man the obeisance he obviously expected. Despite his decision to cooperate with the new Cardinal, he found himself taking an instant dislike to the man, sensing the shrewd air of cunning Tréville had alluded to. It was nothing he could put into words, but he felt the same sense of malevolence he had felt when in the presence of Cardinal Richelieu, and that was enough to make him wary of the man. He was content to see a flicker of annoyance momentarily cross Mazarin’s face. 

Returning Athos’ bow, Mazarin quickly turned and made his way back to the desk, waving a hand at a chair, silently inviting the Musketeer to sit.

Athos considered complying. He didn’t wish to completely alienate the man who would have the ear of the King, despite his instincts – and those of his Captain – telling him it was but a mute point at best, but the shrewd smile on Mazarin’s face stayed his capitulation. He felt as if the Cardinal were testing him, calculating how far he could be pushed, how difficult he would be to manipulate. He tilted his head in appreciation of the offer, but remained standing at attention.

“I have been ordered by the Captain to turn over the investigation into Cardinal Richelieu’s death to you. If it would suit your Eminence, I will report our findings so that you may continue the inquiry to your own satisfaction.”

Mazarin took a seat behind the desk and nodded, his eyes narrowing as he assessed Athos’ coolly. “By all means, please begin.”

Athos nodded and took a step forward, placing himself halfway between the desk and the door. “The dagger that was used to kill the Cardinal was traced to a merchant on Rue Saint-Germaine. The cutler himself sold the dagger to a woman –“

A clash of steel from outside interrupted and he frowned as the sound was followed by the familiar call of Aramis’ strained voice.

“Athos!”

mmmmmmmmmmmmm

As soon as Athos disappeared through the archway to the palace, Porthos turned to his friends, a worried expression on his face. “This doesn’t bode well.”

Aramis shrugged and took a step past Porthos’ large frame, his eyes taking in the remaining guard who was nervously glancing up and down the portico. “Perhaps the new Cardinal simply prefers to avoid a crowd?” he offered. A small contingency of Red Guards who were making their way toward them from the far end of the walkway stole his attention. “Or perhaps not.”

There were five soldiers approaching, the rapid clomping of boots on stone catching the attention of the other two Musketeers. Porthos and d’Artagnan turned, stepping abreast of Aramis as the group of soldiers drew near, muskets and swords at the ready.

“Easy, now,” Porthos cautioned. “Let’s see what they want first.” He had seen d’Artagnan’s hand reach for his rapier out of the corner of his eye and let his own hand drift to the younger man’s arm in silent caution.

“Stand down,” the leader of the guard ordered as the men formed a line in front of them. “We are here to apprehend the Musketeer known as Aramis.”

Without a word, Porthos took two large steps to his right, instinctively feeling d’Artagnan step forward so that Aramis was now safely positioned behind and between them.

“By whose authority?” His hand wrapped around the hilt of his schiavona and he crouched slightly in anticipation, allowing his head to dip and his eyes to challenge the guard.

The leader of the guard swallowed hard at the formidable stance of the men before him, but held his ground.

“By order of Cardinal Mazarin.”

Aramis, momentarily stunned at hearing the orders, had allowed his brothers to step forward in his defense, but now slowly advanced, bringing himself alongside Porthos and d’Artagnan. “On what charge?” he asked, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart in his chest.

Had Mazarin somehow discovered his liaison with the Queen? Was Anne also in danger?  
The child?

“He is wanted for questioning in the death of Cardinal Richelieu,” the man responded. 

Aramis let out the breath he’d been holding, almost dizzy in relief. Although being arrested for murder was little better than treason, at least this was something they could fight without having to worry about Anne or the child also being in peril.

He placed a hand on Porthos’ shoulder and squeezed, a slight dip of the big man’s head telling him he understood his relief that they need not fear the worst.

Aramis returned his attention to the leader of the Red Guard, watching as the man took a few deep breaths, obviously trying to summon the courage to execute his orders. The animosity between the Red Guard and the Musketeers was well known, and although the soldiers of the guard were publicly defiant, it was no secret that the Musketeers were the better fighters, only losing to the Red Guard in skirmishes where they were vastly outnumbered. Five to three were generally not good odds for the guards. Finally, the man raised his head and looked down his nose courageously. “You will stand down and allow us to take Aramis into custody.” 

Raising his sword, the man pointed it toward the Spaniard, causing Porthos and d’Artagnan to draw their own blades at the implied threat to their friend.

“Not bloody likely,” Porthos growled with a firm shake of his head. He shoved Aramis back behind him and raised his schiavona, the tip of the broad blade sliding against the point of the guard’s rapier. “You’ll have to go through me first.”

“This is not the way, Porthos,” Aramis chided as he stepped behind and to Porthos’ right, coming into line with his friends. “Dueling is illegal. I’m sure it is especially frowned upon on palace grounds.”

“Then maybe we should just dispense with the dueling and kill them outright.”

Aramis smiled at the glee in his friend’s voice. “Unfortunately, we would likely end up having to clean the mess. You know how much d’Artagnan hates bloodstains.”

Porthos chuckled, glancing over at the young Gascon who returned his grin. “The man has a point, Porthos. Of course, I don’t see another alternative.”

The Red Guard soldiers, growing impatient, moved forward, spreading out to challenge the Musketeers. The leader of the guard lunged, his blade colliding with Porthos’ in a loud clash of steel.

Aramis sighed. “I’m afraid we may need another opinion.” With a shake of his head, he took a deep breath and shouted, “Athos!”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm

The guard on the end of the line lunged toward Aramis who gracefully stepped to the side, allowing the man’s momentum to carry him straight past the Musketeers. As he stumbled by, the Spaniard stuck out a foot, catching the guard around the ankle, sending him tumbling face first into a bed of flowering plants on the edge of the walkway.

With a satisfied grin, the marksman pivoted in time to see Porthos riposte then twist his wrist, forcing the sword to fly from the guard leader’s hand. The big Musketeer took a step and swung his left fist into his opponent’s face. Blood spurted from his nose and the man dropped like a stone. Porthos glanced up and caught the smile on Aramis’ face, returning a gleeful look of his own before raising his schiavona to meet the challenge of one of the other guards.

On the far side of Porthos, Aramis caught sight of d’Artagnan dancing around another Red Guard soldier, an expression of sheer delight on his youthful face. Outmatched by the Gascon and knowing it, the guard backed away, his blade held high, desperately trying to parry the skillful thrusts.

“Enough!”

Athos’ command carried across the walkway and all three Musketeers disengaged immediately, keeping their swords en guard and pointed at the soldiers. The man Aramis had dropped scrambled to his feet and scampered around them, coming to join his comrades, seething in anger.

“What is the meaning of this?” Athos approached the contingency of soldiers, his eyes flashing as he stood shoulder to shoulder with his friends. Mazarin had followed him from the palace and now stood under the portico, quiet, observing Athos take command of the situation.

“We were following orders.” The leader of the Red Guard stepped forward. Breathing hard, his face flushed; his gaze swept the Musketeers with disdain. 

“I cannot conceive of any order where battling on palace grounds would be encouraged.”

The guardsman bristled at the thinly veiled reprimand.

“We were ordered to arrest the Musketeer Aramis and hold him for questioning in the death of Cardinal Richelieu,” the man stated. He lifted his arm and pointed to Porthos and d’Artagnan in turn. “These two miscreants tried to impede us.”

“Ordered? By whom?” Athos ignored Porthos’ low growl of protest at the insult.

“By me.” Cardinal Mazarin stepped forward, his arms crossed beneath his robe, his shoulders back, his head cocked in an air of superiority.

Athos turned to face France’s new First Minister, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “On what grounds did you issue this order?”

Before the Cardinal could respond, the sounds of approaching footsteps echoed from the walls, and the soldiers turned to see King Louis and Queen Anne, followed by their courtiers, striding down the portico toward them. As the royal couple approached, they recognized the look of alarm on the face of the Queen as well as the scowl covering the countenance of the King.

“What is this?” Louis called out as they came to a stop on the walkway. “Sheathe your weapons! There will be no hostility in my home!”

The soldiers quickly complied, bowing as the King and Queen stepped to the edge of the portico to face their subjects. Louis’ angry glare came to a rest on Athos.

“You are the one they call Athos, is this correct?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Athos rose and stepped forward to address the Sovereign, bowing his head in contrition. “My humble apologies for any distress my men may have caused.”

Louis scanned the men assembled before him, recognition flashing across his face as he glanced at the Musketeers before returning his attention to Athos and Cardinal Mazarin who had stepped forward to join them. 

“I’m sure you have an explanation for this travesty?”

“I believe it was of my doing,” Mazarin interrupted. “My guards were following my instructions to apprehend the Musketeer Aramis for questioning, Your Highness. I’m afraid they were a bit too enthusiastic and the man’s associates took offence.”

“Apprehend Aramis?” The Queen’s soft voice held a hint of reproach. She placed a hand on her husband’s arm, her eyes holding Mazarin’s. “Why on earth would you order your men to arrest so loyal a Musketeer, Cardinal? Monsieur Aramis has risked his life for the crown on many occasions. Both the King and I hold him in the highest regard.”

Aramis lowered his head to hide the expression of fondness he knew was written on his face. His appreciation of the Queen’s confidence in him warmed him and he longed to hold her and tell her how much he cherished her profound faith in him. Instead, he schooled his face and raised his eyes, tilting his head in a chivalrous display of gratitude.

She smiled graciously in return.

“I do not make this accusation pointlessly, Your Majesty. I’m afraid there is evidence implicating your steadfast champion,” Mazarin responded. His mouth lifted in a contemptuous grin as his gaze shifted from the Queen to the Musketeer, and Aramis’ breath caught in his throat, praying the glint of suspicion he imagined he saw in the Cardinal’s dark eyes was borne of his own anxiety rather than any physical tell he or Anne may have revealed.

Mazarin’s scrutiny had not gone unnoticed and Athos stepped in front of Aramis, effectively cutting off the Cardinal’s line of sight.

“You spoke of evidence?” he intoned, successfully diverting attention away from the younger man. 

Mazarin nodded. “It has come to my attention the dagger used to brutally murder my friend and predecessor belonged to none other than your Musketeer.”

Athos eyes narrowed at the pronouncement and he held up a hand for quiet before any of his brothers could respond.

“And where did you learn of this development, if I may inquire?”

Mazarin spread his hands before him and smiled, defying Athos to counter the accusation. “Do you deny the allegation?” the First Minister asked, ignoring the Musketeer’s question in favor of pressing his own agenda.

“Is this true?” Louis asked in shock.

Athos turned slightly, sharing a quick glance with Aramis, who nodded, giving his friend permission to handle the situation as he saw fit.

“We do not deny it.” He turned to the King, his voice level as he continued. “The dagger did once belong to Aramis, but it has not been in his possession for many months. As I was about to report to the Cardinal before we were interrupted,” he sent a looked of annoyance towards Porthos and d’Artagnan who both had the grace to look abashed. “I recognized the dagger when we were first called to investigate the Cardinal’s death. When confronted, Aramis revealed he had traded the dagger to a cutler on Rue Saint-Germaine many months ago. The merchant remembered the transaction and who he subsequently sold the dagger to.”

The King beamed at the Cardinal. “Ah, there, you see, Jules, a perfectly reasonable explanation.” He seemed extremely pleased to have his Musketeer cleared and turned to his wife, patting the hand that still remained on his arm. “Fret not my dear, nothing to worry about.”

Anne smiled at him, her relief obvious. It wasn’t completely telling for the Queen to make a plea for a man who’d saved her life on numerous occasions, and Louis seemed to understand her need to champion her savior without suspecting anything amiss. For that, Aramis breathed a sigh of relief.

“You said the merchant remembered the man he sold the dagger to?”

“It was a woman, Sire.”

Aramis noted Athos’ gaze on Mazarin as he recounted the description they had gleaned from the cutler. The Cardinal’s expression remained passive, but Aramis could see a touch of displeasure in his eyes.

“I’m sure you will be able to find this woman and bring her before the court.” Louis’ words were more of an order than a request. “I want justice served, Cardinal. Armand was very dear to me and I want you to stop at nothing to find his murderer. Consider this matter your first priority.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

“I am escorting my wife to her chambers. When I return, I expect this…” he waved a hand toward the soldiers standing in the garden, “… to be resolved.”

Mazarin bowed in acquiescence, stepping aside so the royal couple could continue down the walkway.

The rest of the men assembled bowed as they passed. Aramis lifted his gaze in time to catch Anne’s eyes, a soft smile gracing her beautiful face, before they disappeared through an archway further down the portico.

“If you have no further need of us, Cardinal?”

Mazarin took a deep breath through his nose and glared at Athos, obviously angry that his orders had been overruled, but gave a sharp nod before turning and striding purposefully back into the palace. Without any objective directing them, the five members of the Red Guard reluctantly dispersed, leaving the four Musketeers alone in the garden.

“I guess we’ve got ourselves another enemy,” Porthos noted as he relaxed his shoulders and stepped closer to his friends. He placed a hand on Aramis’ shoulder, dipping his chin toward the arm the smaller man had wrapped protectively around his torso. Aramis smiled to let his friend know he was unharmed and Porthos accepted his affirmation. “He especially took a liking to you,” the big man grinned. “You cuckholding him like you did Richelieu?”

Aramis snorted a laugh. “Porthos, please,” he said indignantly. “I’ve just met the man. I wouldn’t dream of sleeping with a man’s mistress until I’ve gotten to know and despise him accordingly.”

“It would seem the Queen has taken a liking to you as well,” d’Artagnan chuckled. His attention was on the two remaining guards who had once again assumed their positions near the palace entrance, so he missed the identical looks of alarm his innocent words garnered. Aramis was barely able to choke off a grunt of surprise at the Gascon’s comment.

Aramis sent a fleeting glance of apprehension to Porthos before shifting his gaze to Athos. The pointed look of displeasure from the older man made it obvious he had not missed the exchange between the other two seasoned Musketeers. Aramis sighed, shrugged a shoulder in contrition. It wasn’t as if he’d ever been able to keep a secret from Porthos for long.

As Athos shook his head, reproach glinting in his eyes, Aramis was thankful he postponed chastising him for his obvious lack of judgment until d’Artagnan was no longer within earshot. There was no reason to put the young man’s neck in a noose along side their own. He only hoped Athos would understand his decision to confess to Porthos. As difficult as it had been to admit his transgression to his friend, it had been even harder to hide it from him. 

Luckily, Athos had more pressing matters to consider.

“I believe our new First Minister may be in league with Milady de Winter.”

Three pairs of curious eyes turned to their leader at once.

“What makes you think that?” d’Artagnan inquired.

“Because he already knew about the dagger,” Aramis speculated. He quickly considered the way Athos had reacted to the news of the Cardinal’s order to have him arrested. Mazarin would not have learned of his connection to the weapon from Athos, so for the order to have been issued before they’d even arrived to report, the Cardinal would have had to have spoken with someone who knew the truth. 

Porthos nodding, understanding. “The guards were ordered to be ready for us. Mazarin would’ve already had to know it was Aramis’ dagger.”

“And unless he was able to speak with every cutler in Paris in the short time since the Cardinal’s death….” D’Artagnan finally caught on. “He could only have gotten that information from the person who purchased the dagger in the first place.”

Athos nodded slowly. “Milady.” He sighed, the sound sending a shiver down Aramis’ spine. “Apparently, my wife has found a new patron.”

“Then nothing has changed,” Porthos spat.

Aramis shrugged, offering a more optimistic viewpoint. “We are no longer in the dark concerning her intentions.” He glanced at Athos, a look of sympathy on his face. “And we are painfully aware of her objective. So we will not be so easy for her to manipulate again.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged a glance then nodded in agreement.

“Her plan to frame Aramis has been foiled as is the Cardinal’s hope to divide us.” Athos laid a hand on Aramis’ arm, smiling sadly. “That said, I do not believe we will have to deal with any more threats from either of them tonight.” He straightened his shoulders and let his eyes meet his friends’ one by one. Despite the knowledge Milady was still in Paris and still determined to bring about Athos’ destruction, Aramis was pleased to note his friend’s eyes lacked the despair that had resided in the blue depths before. 

“Tonight,” their leader allowed a grin to lift the side of his lips. “We drink.”

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

For Whom The Bells Toll – Chapter 5

“So,” Athos leaned back in his chair, one arm lying across the tavern table, his hand playing with the lip of his half-empty cup of wine. “Porthos knows.” 

Despite the relatively early hour, they had decided to forego reporting back to the garrison. Word of their altercation with Mazarin and the Red Guard soldiers would find it’s way back to the Captain, but they had decided their report to Tréville could wait until the morning. The failure of Milady’s scheme had left them feeling both satisfied and euphoric, with a sense of triumph that had deepened their need for camaraderie and celebration. They had silently agreed to convene at the Wren, each of them wanting to remain in their brothers’ company for a while longer. They prayed their commanding officer would understand.

Aramis nodded in response to Athos statement. “He… surmised.”

There was a long moment of silence as both men’s eyes shifted to the table in the center of the room where Porthos and d’Artagnan were currently engrossed in a game of bassette with a few of the establishment’s seedier looking patrons.

“And now his future is as tenuous as ours.”

Aramis chuckled sadly and raised his goblet. “All for one, eh?”

Athos tipped his cup against his friend’s. “And one for all.”

They both drank in silence, their attention returning to the game as Porthos’ thunderous laugh filled the room and he raked in another pile of coins.

“How did he take it?” Athos asked after a moment.

Aramis smiled, remembering the way the big man had reacted to his confession. “As you might expect. He yelled, explained in great detail what a fool I’ve been.” His smile softened and his eyes crinkled in warm affection. “Then he embraced me and pledged his life to protect my child.”

“He is predictable,” Athos nodded. He leaned forward, reached across the table and laid his hand atop Aramis’. “Though it hasn’t been spoken aloud, Porthos is not alone in his pledge.”

Aramis patted Athos’ hand and chuckled softly. “It was never in doubt, my friend.”

Athos nodded and sat back in the chair, bringing the cup to his lips and taking a drink of his wine. “Although I regret Porthos joining us in our predicament, it will make things easier. All is forgiven, I presume?”

“For me,” Aramis tilted his head and gave his friend a mischievous grin. “He’s still quite angry with you.” 

“Of course,” Athos responded, not missing a beat. “My crime was much more grievous.” 

“You impugned the reputation of one of the King’s bravest and most honorable Musketeers,” Aramis agreed, his voice dripping with innocence. “I merely slept with a beautiful woman. Porthos takes loyalty to his brothers very seriously.”

“Loyalty is one of his more admirable qualities. And what of d’Artagnan?”

Aramis sobered, he diverted his attention to the young man who was smiling as Porthos dealt another hand of cards. D’Artagnan had become one of them very quickly, and Aramis couldn’t imagine facing the future without him at his side, but he did not feel right burdening the young Gascon with such a dangerous secret. D’Artagnan may not appreciate being left out if ever he should become aware, but Aramis couldn’t bring himself to be the cause of the boy’s ruin.

“I think it best if he remains in the dark.”

“He won’t like it,” Athos cautioned, unknowingly echoing the voice in Aramis’ head. “He’ll know there is something we’re not telling him. He’s more perceptive than we give him credit for. And he was less than accepting of my previous doubts of your honor.”

Aramis chuckled. “Our pup has a loyalty that rivals Porthos’, eh?”

“So it would seem.”

“That makes me feel all warm inside.” The Spaniard’s grin widened and he looked upon his friend with a satisfied gleam in his dark eyes.

“I’m happy for you,” Athos responded, his voice dry as parchment.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Aramis assured him. “Porthos understands and d’Artagnan… d’Artagnan worships you. He will not remain angry for long.”

“This is all your fault.”

“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear.” Aramis said, rolling his eyes. “I accept all responsibility for your current status as scoundrel.”

Athos raised the wine bottle that sat on the table between them and poured the small amount remaining into his cup. “Good,” he smiled, tossing the empty bottle to Aramis who caught it deftly in his left hand. “You can buy more wine in reparation. I feel unusually parched this evening.”

Aramis placed the bottle back on the table and bowed his head in deference to his friend’s request. “It is positively the very least I could do.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As darkness fell, the crowd at the tavern increased, wine flowed and laughter filled the room. Aramis had gone to fetch their fourth bottle of wine, stopping at the gaming table to urge Porthos and d’Artagnan on in their endeavor to relieve most of the tavern’s patrons of their hard-earned livres. Athos hadn’t been paying close enough attention to tell if Porthos was cheating, but knowing the big man, he probably was. He gave momentary thought to interceding before d’Artagnan was thoroughly corrupted, but he was quite comfortable slouched in his chair by the fire, and with Aramis paying for the wine, he was content to let the others handle their own transgressions for a time.

The fire was warm and the wine he’d already imbibed was making him drowsy. He allowed himself to sink further into the chair, his sleepy gaze rapt on the orange and gold flames dancing in the hearth. Despite all they’d encountered in the last few days, he was at ease, content in knowing his brothers were safe for now and that they were as prepared as they could be for the tribulations that would come their way. Aramis had been cleared, and although Athos knew his friend was still troubled by the situation he’d found himself in with the Queen, the fact both Athos and Porthos were there for him, supporting and shielding him from his own self-doubts, had already lifted his spirits and given him the courage he needed to face his new reality. 

Athos certainly didn’t envy his friend his plight. To have a child, to love it and yet be forced to watch from afar, unable to acknowledge that love, was something he would wish on no man – let alone someone like Aramis who loved with all his heart. He knew there would be trying times in the years to come, but they would be there for him. And they would protect Aramis’ child with their lives. That was a pledge he would be honored to uphold.

Lost in thought, Athos started at the cold edge of steel against his neck, feeling the blade nick his skin as he instinctively shifted in his chair. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of jasmine, his mind aware that he was no longer alone, a familiar, haunting presence behind him.

“Do you aim to slit my throat in public?” he asked dryly, trying not to let his discomfort at being caught unawares show.

“I’m not going to kill you, husband. At least not yet.” Milady’s voice was low, bitter, and Athos found himself cringing at the tone. This was a woman who had once laughed, whispered words of love and promise to him. Her voice had been the most beautiful sound he could imagine, but now it was filled with venom and hate, and he had no one to blame but himself.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” He glanced across the room, relieved to see his friends still engaged at the gaming table. He shifted slightly, attempting to bring his head around to face her, but was thwarted by the increased pressure of the blade against his neck. “I do not deny you your hatred of me, but I will not stand by and allow you to imperil the lives of my friends.”

Milady’s laugh was malicious. “It was convenient the dagger belonged to Aramis, was it not?” Athos could hear the vitriol in her voice. “Too bad you were able to save him. I was looking forward to watching you see him hang.”

“So it was you who murdered the Cardinal. I thought he was your patron.”

“Murder is such a harsh word. The Cardinal betrayed me like every other man I’ve ever known. He got what he deserved.”

“Cardinal Mazarin cannot protect you any more than Richelieu did.” There was no reaction, but the silence made him believe he had guessed correctly. “You should have heeded my warning and left Paris.”

“I have unfinished business here, husband.”

Athos flinched as the blade nicked him again.

“I am sorry if my actions turned you into this.”

She laughed again. “Your actions only confirmed what I already knew as truth.”

A loud roar from the gaming tables caused him to jump and he looked across the room to see Porthos raking in another pot. D’Aragnan looked on in bewilderment and Aramis was smiling, patting Porthos’ shoulder with enthusiasm. 

Abruptly, he realized he could no longer feel the cold edge of the blade against his skin, nor the haunting presence behind him. He shifted around in the chair, his eyes searching through the dim light for a sign of his former love. His heart pounded against his ribs and his skin tingled as if just waking from a dream, the scent of jasmine lingering upon his senses, though he could no longer distinguish whether it was real or simply a product of his wine addled imagination. He released a harsh breath, his chest tight as if he’d been holding the air inside himself for too long. 

Looking up, he caught Aramis’ gaze, the marksman sobering instantly. He leaned down, whispering something to Porthos and d’Artagnan that caused them both to turn their eyes toward Athos. Without a word, the three men stepped away from the gaming table and approached their leader.

“Athos?” Aramis spoke first as he placed the bottle of wine he’d purchased in the center of the table and took a seat to Athos’ right. He didn’t need to elaborate, his obvious unease saying what his voice did not.

“I’m fine,” Athos responded automatically. 

“Then why do you look as if you’ve seen a ghost?” D’Artagnan took the seat to Athos’ left, leaving Porthos to turn the chair on the opposite side of the table and perch on it, strong arms draped across the top of the wooden back, eyes boring into the man across from him.

Athos looked around again, noticing the taverns patrons going about their business as if nothing was amiss. Nobody was staring, no alarm had been raised at a beautiful, dark haired woman holding a blade against the neck of a man in their midst. It would seem, nobody had seen a thing. And if nobody had seen her… He raised a hand to his neck, his fingers going cold as they touched the unblemished skin.

“Perhaps that is precisely what happened.”

The other three exchanged glances and Aramis reached out, purposefully pushing the wine bottle away from Athos toward Porthos who placed a hand on it possessively. “I think it may be time to call it a night.”

Athos smiled, touched by his friends’ concern. “A ghost can not harm us.” He took a deep breath and held his cup out, his eyes focused pointedly at Porthos. He pretended not to notice the look Porthos sent to Aramis, who in turn shrugged, clearly unsure what to make of Athos’ strange behavior. 

Porthos poured the wine, filling their cups as Athos held his up, waiting patiently for them to join in his toast.

“To the ghosts of our pasts,” he intoned.

“To the spirit of our future,” Aramis added.

“To the fellowship of the present,” Porthos concluded.

“All for one,” d’Artagnan spoke the familiar words, his eyes shining as they clinked the cups together.

Four voices echoed in the din of the tavern. “And one for all.”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

Aramis awoke to the sounds of bells ringing. The melody rang out, easing the ache in his head as well as the ache in his soul. They had finished their wine the previous night, Athos’ rather melancholy behavior setting the tone for the rest of the evening. They stayed together at their table, Porthos foregoing the invitations to return to the gaming table, content to drink together, commiserating on their ill-fated attempts at love and the women who had stolen and broken their hearts. Although he never mentioned Anne’s name out loud, he feared d’Artagnan was somehow able to deduce whom he had been lamenting. Though the Gascon had never let on, and Aramis fervently hoped his inebriated friend would not remember much past his own contribution concerning his still confusing feelings for Madame Bonacieux, he was convinced d’Artagnan had worked out the secret they had tried to keep from him and silently apologized to his young friend for their lack of reticent. Sighing in contrition, Aramis let his thoughts wander, wondering what time it was and how late he would be for Sunday mass --

His eyes shot open and he sat up abruptly, ignoring the rush of blood to his head that momentarily caused his vision to waiver. The bells. They normally only rang out on the Sabbath. 

It wasn’t the Sabbath. 

Which could only mean… something of great importance had happened. Could it be?

Jumping from his bed, he quickly pulled his breeches and boots on, ducking into a shirt as he hurried out the door onto the wooden deck. Tréville was just stepping out of his office on the landing across the quad, and he called for the attention of the Musketeers already assembled in the garrison courtyard.

As soon as he had the notice of the regiment, the Captain raised a hand, waiting for the bells to finish their toll. When silence reigned, he spoke, his voice loud to carry across the distance.

“I have the great privilege of informing you that the Queen has given birth to a son. Both mother and child are healthy and happy.”

As cheers broke out from below, Aramis gripped the rail forcefully, his knees weak, his chest tight as he realized he had been holding his breath, waiting for the Captain’s words. As he inhaled the cool morning air, his eyes dropped, searching the men congregating below. His gaze quickly found Porthos’ who was already looking up, watching him. The big man lifted his cup in a salute, a grin playing on his rugged features. Next to him, Athos was also watching, his face as unreadable as always. He nodded his head, a deft movement that would probably have been missed by anyone not looking directly at him, and Aramis thought he saw a hint of a smile alight his lips.

A hand came down on his shoulder, startling him and only his tight hold on the rail saved him from collapsing in a heap onto the decking.

“Did you hear?” d’Artagnan asked, his face split with a wide smile. “France has an heir! Isn’t it wonderful news?”

Aramis simply nodded, unable to form a response while his heart was beating so loudly in his own ears. 

D’Artagnan didn’t seem to notice his distress and clapped him on the arm once more before making his way down the stairs to join the celebration below. At least he could set his fears for the young man to rest. It was obvious d’Artagnan was none the wiser as to what this news truly meant, which was one less burden weighing on his shoulders. Aramis was inclined to take what small favors he could find.

He swallowed hard and turned, quietly escaping back into his room, closing the door firmly behind him. As he slid down the rough wood to the floor, the bells began to toll again, the sweet melody heralding the arrival of the heir to the throne of France.

A son.

His son.

He blinked away the wetness in his eyes, belatedly realizing his cheeks were moist. Unashamed, he let the tears fall, silently thanking God for protecting Anne and their child. He knew his Lord would watch over them from His realm in Heaven, and he swore on his life that he would do the same here on earth.

Slow, heavy footsteps on the walkway outside warned him of Porthos’ approach – he’d expected his friend to check on him, he’d just hoped for a bit of time to compose himself after hearing the news. The footsteps stopped just outside his door, but there was no knock and he knew his brother understood. Porthos would wait for him, and then they would all go celebrate the birth of the dauphin.

As the bells finished their song, he smiled through his tears, recognition dawning. They were the familiar bells of Notre Dame. The Cardinal had lied. They were not in such a state of disrepair after all. 

The Cardinal was gone – killed by his own treachery – and Aramis could not find it in himself to mourn the man. They may never be able to prove that Milady and Mazarin had collaborated against Richelieu, but it would not be the first time someone had killed to advance to power and he doubted it would be the last. Considering the treachery Richelieu brought about, perhaps Milady had inadvertently done France a favor. The Cardinal was no longer a potential threat to Anne and the baby, and the King would be more affluent without his counsel. After all Richelieu had done, he had gotten what he deserved, and Aramis prayed the bells of Chapelle de la Sorbonne would be silenced forever.

He smiled as the bells continued to toll. These were the bells that should be ringing out over Paris; the bells of Notre Dame. The beautiful sound heralding the birth of the future King. 

The End… for now

 

This is the first story of a 4 story arc. The other three are all plotted out and I hope to have the second story ready to start posting within a couple weeks. I sincerely hope I captured the spirit of The Musketeers. I love these characters and I have been thoroughly infatuated with the show – something that hasn’t happened to me since season one of Supernatural. Since recent seasons of that show have left me feeling adrift, I have waited for something to come along to inspire me to write again. These four characters were that inspiration. I’m so glad my friend Jackfan2 talked me into buying that DVD. I owe ya, girl!! Again, sincerest thanks to my beta, Sharlot, for all her hard work and dedication. She took the time over her holidays to edit this and add her unique insights. She truly is a wonder! Feel free to leave me any comments, I would love to hear your opinions! Thanks for reading!


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